Invisible   Links 


Invisible  Links 


Translated  from  the  Swedish  of 
Selma  Lagerlof 

Author  of  "The  Story  of  Gosta  Berling,"  "The  Miracles 
of  Antichrist,"  etc. 

by 

Pauline  Bancroft  Flach 


Boston 

Little,  Brown,  and  Company 
1899 


Copyright,  1899, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD  ....  3 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BIRD'S  NEST     .......  59 

THE  KING'S  GRAVE 71 

THE  OUTLAWS 99 

THE  LEGEND  OF  REOR 127 

VALDEMAR  ATTERDAG 137 

MAMSELL  FREDRIKA 147 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  FISHERMAN'S  WIFE 161 

MOTHER'S  PORTRAIT 175 

A  FALLEN  KING 185 

A  CHRISTMAS  GUEST 215 

UNCLE  REUBEN 229 

DOWNIE 243 

AMONG  THE  CLIMBING  ROSES               ,    .   .•„    .     ,    .    .  281 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    FASTING    AND 
FETTER    NORD 


INVISIBLE     LINKS 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   FASTING  AND 
FETTER  NORD 


I  CAN  see  before  me  the  little  town,  friendly  as  a 
home.  It  is  so  small  that  I  know  its  every  hole 
and  corner,  am  friends  with  all  the  children  and 
know  the  name  of  every  one  of  its  dogs.  Who  ever 
walked  up  the  street  knew  to  which  window  he  must 
raise  his  eyes  to  see  a  lovely  face  behind  the  panes, 
and  who  ever  strolled  through  the  town  park  knew 
well  whither  he  should  turn  his  steps  to  meet  the 
one  he  wished  to  meet. 

One  was  as  proud  of  the  beautiful  roses  in  the  gar- 
den of  a  neighbor,  as  if  they  had  grown  in  one's  own. 
If  anything  mean  or  vulgar  was  done,  it  was  as  great 
a  shame  as  if  it  had  happened  in  one's  own  family; 
but  at  the  smallest  adventure,  at  a  fire  or  a  fight  in 
the  market-place,  one  swelled  with  pride  and  said : 
"  Only  see  what  a  community !  Do  such  things  ever 
happen  anywhere  else?  What  a  wonderful  town  ! " 

In  my  beloved  town  nothing  ever  changes.  If  I 
ever  come  there  again,  I  shall  find  the  same  houses 
and  shops  that  I  knew  of  old ;  the  same  holes  in  the 
pavements  will  cause  my  downfall ;  the  same  stiff 
hedges  of  lindens,  the  same  clipped  lilac  bushes  will 


4  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

captivate  my  fascinated  gaze.  Again  shall  I  see  the 
old  Mayor  who  rules  the  whole  town  walking  down 
the  street  with  elephantine  tread.  What  a  feeling 
of  security  there  is  in  knowing  that  you  are  walking 
there !  And  deaf  old  Halfvorson  will  still  be  dig- 
ging in  his  garden,  while  his  eyes,  clear  as  water, 
stare  and  wander  as  if  they  would  say:  "We  have 
investigated  everything,  everything;  now,  earth,  we 
will  bore  down  to  your  very  centre." 

But  one  who  will  not  still  be  there  is  little,  round 
Fetter  Nord:  the  little  fellow  from  Varmland,  you 
know,  who  was  in  Halfvorson's  shop;  he  who  amused 
the  customers  with  his  small  mechanical  inventions 
and  his  white  mice.  There  is  a  long  story  about 
him.  There  are  stories  to  be  told  about  everything 
and  everybody  in  the  town.  Nowhere  else  do  such 
wonderful  things  happen. 

He  was  a  peasant  boy,  little  Fetter  Nord.  He 
was  short  and  round;  he  was  brown-eyed  and  smil- 
ing. His  hair  was  paler  than  birch  leaves  in  the 
autumn;  his  cheeks  were  red  and  downy.  And  he 
was  from  Varmland.  No  one,  seeing  him,  could 
imagine  that  he  was  from  any  other  place.  His 
native  land  had  equipped  him  with  its  excellent 
qualities.  He  was  quick  at  his  work,  nimble  with 
his  fingers,  ready  with  his  tongue,  clear  in  his 
thoughts.  And,  moreover,  full  of  fun,  good-natured 
and  brave,  kind  and  quarrelsome,  inquisitive  and  a 
chatterbox.  A  madcap,  he  never  could  show  more 
respect  to  a  burgomaster  than  to  a  beggar!  But 
he  had  a  heart ;  he  fell  in  love  every  other  day,  and 
confided  in  the  whole  town. 

This  child  of  rich  gifts  attended  to  the  work  in  the 
shop  in  rather  an  extraordinary  manner.  The  cus- 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     5 

tomers  were  waited  on  while  he  fed  the  white  mice. 
Money  was  changed  and  counted  while  he  put  wheels 
on  his  little  automatic  wagons.  And  while  he  told 
the  customers  of  his  very  last  love-affair,  he  kept  his 
eye  on  the  quart  measure,  into  which  the  brown 
molasses  was  slowly  curling.  It  delighted  his  admir- 
ing listeners  to  see  him  suddenly  leap  over  the 
counter  and  rush  out  into  the  street  to  have  a  brush 
with  a  passing  street-boy;  also  to  see  him  calmly 
return  to  tie  the  string  on  a  package  or  to  finish 
measuring  a  piece  of  cloth. 

Was  it  not  quite  natural  that  he  should  be  the 
favorite  of  the  whole  town  ?  We  all  felt  obliged  to 
trade  with  Halfvorson,  after  Fetter  Nord  came  there. 
Even  the  old  Mayor  himself  was  proud  when  Fetter 
Nord  took  him  apart  into  a  dark  corner  and  showed 
him  the  cages  of  the  white  mice.  It  was  nervous 
work  to  show  the  mice,  for  Halfvorson  had  forbidden 
him  to  have  them  in  the  shop. 

But  then  in  the  brightening  February  there  came 
a  few  days  of  warm,  misty  weather.  Fetter  Nord 
became  suddenly  serious  and  silent.  He  let  the 
white  mice  nibble  the  steel  bars  of  their  cages  with- 
out feeding  them.  He  attended  to  his  duties  in  the 
most  irreproachable  way.  He  fought  with  no  more 
street  boys.  Could  Fetter  Nord  not  bear  the  change 
in  the  weather  ? 

Oh  no,  the  matter  was  that  he  had  found  a  fifty- 
crown  note  on  one  of  the  shelves.  He  believed  that 
it  had  got  caught  in  a  piece  of  cloth,  and  without 
any  one's  seeing  him  he  had  pushed  it  under  a  roll 
of  striped  cotton  which  was  out  of  fashion  and  was 
never  taken  down  from  the  shelf. 

The  boy  was  cherishing  great  anger  in  his  heart 


6  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

against  Halfvorson.  The  latter  had  destroyed  a 
whole  family  of  mice  for  him,  and  now  he  meant  to 
be  revenged.  Before  his  eyes  he  still  saw  the  white 
mother  with  her  helpless  offspring.  She  had  not 
made  the  slightest  attempt  to  escape;  she  had  re- 
mained in  her  place  with  steadfast  heroism,  staring 
with  red,  burning  eyes  on  the  heartless  murderer. 
Did  he  not  deserve  a  short  time  of  anxiety?  Fetter 
Nord  wished  to  see  him  come  out  pale  as  death  from 
his  office  and  begin  to  look  for  the  fifty  crowns. 
He  wished  to  see  the  same  despair  in  his  watery 
eyes  as  he  had  seen  in  the  ruby  red  ones  of  the  white 
mouse.  The  shopkeeper  should  search,  he  should 
turn  the  whole  shop  upside  down  before  Fetter  Nord 
would  let  him  find  the  bank-note. 

But  the  fifty  crowns  lay  in  its  hiding-place  all  day 
without  any  one's  asking  about  it.  It  was  a  new 
note,  many-colored  and  bright,  and  had  big  numbers 
in  all  the  corners.  When  Fetter  Nord  was  alone  in 
the  shop,  he  put  a  step-ladder  against  the  shelves  and 
climbed  up  to  the  roll  of  cotton.  Then  he  took  out 
the  fifty  crowns,  unfolded  it  and  admired  its  beauties. 

In  the  midst  of  the  most  eager  trade  he  would 
grow  anxious  lest  something  should  have  happened 
to  the  fifty  crowns.  Then  he  pretended  to  look  for 
something  on  the  shelf,  and  groped  about  under  the 
roll  of  cotton  till  he  felt  the  smooth  bank-note  rustle 
under  his  fingers. 

The  note  had  suddenly  acquired  a  supernatural 
power  over  him.  Might  there  not  be  something  liv- 
ing in  it?  The  figures  surrounded  by  wide  rings 
were  like  magnetic  eyes.  The  boy  kissed  them  all 
and  whispered:  "I  should  like  to  have  many,  very 
many  like  you." 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     7 

He  began  to  have  all  sorts  of  thoughts  about  the 
note,  and  why  Halfvorson  did  not  inquire  for  it. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  Halfvorson's?  Perhaps  it  had 
lain  in  the  shop  for  a  long  time?  Perhaps  it  no 
longer  had  any  owner? 

Thoughts  are  contagious.  —  At  supper  Halfvorson 
had  begun  to  speak  of  money  and  moneyed-men. 
He  told  Petter  Nord  about  all  the  poor  boys  who  had 
amassed  riches.  He  began  with  Whittington  and 
ended  with  Astor  and  Jay  Gould.  Halfvorson  knew 
all  their  histories;  he  knew  how  they  had  striven 
and  denied  themselves ;  what  they  had  discovered 
and  ventured.  He  grew  eloquent  when  he  began  on 
such  tales.  He  lived  through  the  sufferings  of  those 
young  people ;  he  followed  them  in  their  successes ; 
he  rejoiced  in  their  victories.  Petter  Nord  listened 
quite  fascinated. 

Halfvorson  was  stone  deaf,  but  that  was  no  obstacle 
to  conversation,  for  he  read  by  the  lips  everything 
that  was  said.  On  the  other  hand,  he  could  not 
hear  his  own  voice.  It  rolled  out  as  strangely  mon- 
otonous as  the  roar  of  a  distant  waterfall.  But  his 
peculiar  way  of  speaking  made  everything  he  said 
sink  in,  so  that  one  could  not  escape  from  it  for 
many  days.  Poor  Petter  Nord ! 

"What  is  most  needed  to  become  rich,"  said  Half- 
vorson, "  is  the  foundation.  But  it  cannot  be  earned. 
Take  note  that  they  all  have  found  it  in  the  street  or 
discovered  it  between  the  lining  and  cloth  of  a  coat 
which  they  had  bought  at  a  pawnbroker's  sale;  or 
that  it  had  been  won  at  cards,  or  had  been  given  to 
them  in  alms  by  a  beautiful  and  charitable  lady. 
After  they  had  once  found  that  blessed  coin,  every- 
thing had  gone  well  with  them.  The  stream  of  gold 


8  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

welled  from  it  as  from  a  fountain.  The  first  thing 
that  is  necessary,  Fetter  Nord,  is  the  foundation." 

Halfvorson's  voice  sounded  ever  fainter  and 
fainter.  Young  Fetter  Nord  sat  in  a  kind  of  trance 
and  saw  endless  vistas  of  gold  before  him.  On  the 
dining  table  rose  great  piles  of  ducats;  the  floor 
heaved  white  with  silver,  and  the  indistinct  pat- 
terns on  the  dirty  wall-paper  changed  into  bank- 
notes, big  as  handkerchiefs.  But  directly  before 
his  eyes  fluttered  the  fifty-crown  note,  surrounded 
by  wide  rings,  luring  him  like  the  most  beautiful 
eyes.  "Who  can  know,"  smiled  the  eyes,  "perhaps 
the  fifty  crowns  up  on  the  shelf  is  just  such  a  founda- 
tion ? " 

"Mark  my  words,"  said  Halfvorson,  "that,  after 
the  foundation,  two  things  are  necessary  for  those 
who  wish  to  reach  the  heights.  Work,  untiring 
work,  Fetter  Nord,  is  one;  and  the  other  is  renun- 
ciation. Renunciation  of  play  and  love,  of  talk  and 
laughter,  of  morning  sleep  and  evening  strolls.  In 
truth,  in  truth,  two  things  are  necessary  for  him  who 
would  win  fortune.  One  is  called  work,  and  the 
other  renunciation." 

Fetter  Nord  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  weep. 
Of  course  he  wished  to  be  rich,  naturally  he  wished 
to  be  fortunate,  but  fortune  should  not  be  so  anx- 
iously and  sadly  won.  Fortune  ought  to  come  of 
herself.  Just  as  Fetter  Nord  was  fighting  with  the 
street  boys,  the  noble  lady  should  stop  her  coach  at 
the  shop-door,  and  invite  the  Varmland  boy  to  the 
place  at  her  side.  But  now  Halfvorson's  voice  still 
rolled  in  his  ears.  His  brain  was  full  of  it.  He 
thought  of  nothing  else,  knew  nothing  else.  Work 
and  renunciation,  work  and  renunciation,  that  was 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     9 

life  and  the  object  of  life.  He  asked  nothing  else, 
dared  not  think  that  he  had  ever  wished  anything 
else. 

The  next  day  he  did  not  dare  to  kiss  the  fifty- 
crown  note,  did  not  dare  even  to  look  at  it.  He  was 
silent  and  low-spirited,  orderly  and  industrious.  He 
attended  to  all  his  duties  so  irreproachably  that  any 
one  could  see  that  there  was  something  wrong  with 
him.  The  old  Mayor  was  troubled  about  the  boy 
and  did  what  he  could  to  cheer  him. 

"Did  you  think  of  going  to  the  Mid-Lent  ball 
this  evening  ?  "  asked  the  old  man.  "  So,  you  did 
not.  Well,  then  I  invite  you.  And  be  sure  that 
you  come,  or  I  will  tell  Halfvorson  where  you  keep 
your  mouse-cages." 

Fetter  Nord  sighed  and  promised  to  go  to  the  ball. 

The  Mid-Lent  ball,  fancy  Fetter  Nord  at  the  Mid- 
Lent  ball !  Fetter  Nord  would  see  all  the  beautiful 
ladies  of  the  town,  delicate,  dressed  in  white, 
adorned  with  flowers.  But  of  course  Fetter  Nord 
would  not  be  allowed  to  dance  with  a  single  one  of 
them.  Well,  it  did  not  matter.  He  was  not  in  the 
mood  to  dance. 

At  the  ball  he  stood  in  a  doorway  and  made  no 
attempt  to  dance.  Several  people  had  asked  him  to 
take  part,  but  he  had  been  firm  and  said  no.  He 
could  not  dance  any  of  those  dances.  Neither  would 
any  of  those  fine  ladies  be  willing  to  dance  with 
him.  He  was  much  too  humble  for  them. 

But  as  he  stood  there,  his  eyes  began  to  kindle 
and  shine,  and  he  felt  joy  creeping  through  his 
limbs.  It  came  from  the  dance  music;  it  came  from 
the  fragrance  of  the  flowers;  it  came  from  all  the 
beautiful  faces  about  him.  After  a  little  while  he 


10  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

was  so  sparklingly  happy  that,  if  joy  had  been  fire, 
he  would  have  been  surrounded  by  bursting  flames. 
And  if  love  were  it,  as  many  say  it  is,  it  would  have 
been  the  same.  He  was  always  in  love  with  some 
pretty  girl,  but  hitherto  with  only  one  at  a  time. 
But  when  he  now  saw  all  those  beautiful  ladies  to- 
gether, it  was  no  longer  a  single  fire,  which  laid 
waste  his  sixteen-year-old  heart ;  it  was  a  whole  con- 
flagration. 

Sometimes  he  looked  down  at  his  boots,  which 
were  by  no  means  dancing  shoes.  But  how  he  could 
have  marked  the  time  with  the  broad  heels  and  spun 
round  on  the  thick  soles !  Something  was  dragging 
and  pulling  him  and  trying  to  hurl  him  out  on  the 
floor  like  a  whipped  ball.  He  could  still  resist  it, 
although  his  excitement  grew  stronger  as  the  hours 
advanced.  He  grew  delirious  and  hot.  Heigh  ho, 
he  was  no  longer  poor  Fetter  Nord !  He  was  the 
young  whirlwind,  that  raises  the  seas  and  overthrows 
the  forests. 

Just  then  a  hambo-polska1  struck  up.  The  peas- 
ant boy  was  quite  beside  himself.  He  thought  it 
sounded  like  the  polska,  like  the  Varmland  polska. 

Suddenly  Fetter  Nord  was  out  on  the  floor.  All 
his  fine  manners  dropped  off  him.  He  was  no  longer 
at  the  town-hall  ball ;  he  was  at  home  in  the  barn 
at  the  midsummer  dance.  He  came  forward,  his 
knees  bent,  his  head  drawn  down  between  his  shoul- 
ders. Without  stopping  to  ask,  he  threw  his  arms 
round  a  lady's  waist  and  drew  her  with  him.  And 
then  he  began  to  dance  the  polska. 

The  girl  followed  him,  half  unwillingly,  almost 
dragged.  She  was  not  in  time;  she  did  not  know 

1  A  Swedish  national  dance  of  a  very  lively  character. 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD      1 1 

what  kind  of  a  dance  it  was,  but  suddenly  it  went 
quite  of  itself.  The  mystery  of  the  dance  was  re- 
vealed to  her.  The  polska  bore  her,  lifted  her;  her 
feet  had  wings;  she  felt  as  light  as  air.  She 
thought  that  she  was  flying. 

For  the  Varmland  polska  is  the  most  wonderful 
dance.  It  transforms  the  heavy-footed  sons  of  earth. 
Without  a  sound  soles  an  inch  thick  float  over  the 
unplaned  barn  floor.  They  whirl  about,  light  as 
leaves  in  an  autumn  wind.  It  is  supple,  quick, 
silent,  gliding.  Its  noble,  measured  movements  set 
the  body  free  and  let  it  feel  itself  light,  elastic, 
floating. 

While  Fetter  Nord  danced  the  dance  of  his  native 
land,  there  was  silence  in  the  ball-room.  At  first 
people  laughed,  but  then  they  all  recognized  that 
this  was  dancing.  It  floated  away  in  even,  rapid 
whirls;  it  was  dancing  indeed,  if  anything. 

In  the  midst  of  his  delirium  Fetter  Nord  perceived 
that  round  about  him  reigned  a  strange  silence.  He 
stopped  short  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 
There  was  no  black  barn  floor,  no  leafy  walls,  no 
light  blue  summer  night,  no  merry  peasant  maiden 
in  the  reality  he  gazed  upon.  He  was  ashamed  and 
wished  to  steal  away. 

But  he  was  already  surrounded,  besieged.  The 
young  ladies  crowded  about  the  shop-boy  and  cried: 
"Dance  with  us;  dance  with  us!" 

They  wished  to  learn  the  polska.  They  all  wished 
to  learn  to  dance  the  polska.  The  ball  was  turned 
from  its  course  and  became  a  dancing-school.  All 
said  that  they  had  never  known  before  what  it  was 
to  dance.  And  Fetter  Nord  was  a  great  man  for 
that  evening.  He  had  to  dance  with  all  the  fine 


12  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

ladies,  and  they  were  exceedingly  kind  to  him.  He 
was  only  a  boy,  and  such  a  madcap  besides.  No 
one  could  help  making  a  pet  of  him. 

Fetter  Nord  felt  that  this  was  happiness.  To  be 
the  favorite  of  the  ladies,  to  dare  to  talk  to  them, 
to  be  in  the  midst  of  lights,  of  movement,  to  be 
made  much  of,  to  be  petted,  surely  this  was  happi- 
ness. 

When  the  ball  was  over,  he  was  too  happy  to  think 
about  it.  He  needed  to  come  home  to  be  able  to 
think  over  quietly  what  had  happened  to  him  that 
evening. 

Halfvorson  was  not  married,  but  he  had  in  his 
house  a  niece  who  worked  in  the  office.  She  was 
poor  and  dependent  on  Halfvorson,  but  she  was  quite 
haughty  towards  both  him  and  Fetter  Nord.  She 
had  many  friends  among  the  more  important  people 
of  the  town  and  was  invited  to  families  where  Half- 
vorson could  never  come.  She  and  Fetter  Nord  went 
home  from  the  ball  together. 

"Do  you  know,  Nord,"  asked  Edith  Halfvorson, 
"that  a  suit  is  soon  to  be  brought  against  Halfvorson 
for  illicit  trading  in  brandy?  You  might  tell  me 
how  it  really  is." 

"There  is  nothing  worth  making  a  fuss  about," 
said  Fetter  Nord. 

Edith  sighed.  "  Of  course  there  is  nothing.  But 
there  will  be  a  lawsuit  and  fines  and  shame  without 
end.  I  wish  that  I  really  knew  how  it  is." 

"Perhaps  it  is  best  not  to  know  anything,"  said 
Fetter  Nord. 

"I  wish  to  rise  in  the  world,  do  you  see,"  con- 
tinued Edith,  "and  I  wish  to  drag  Halfvorson  up 
with  me,  but  he  always  drops  back  again.  And  then 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD      13 

he  does  something  so  that  I  become  impossible  too. 
He  is  scheming  something  now.  Do  you  not  know 
what  it  is ?  It  would  be  good  to  know." 

"No,"  said  Fetter  Nord,  and  not  another  word 
would  he  say.  It  was  inhuman  to  talk  to  him  of 
such  things  on  the  way  home  from  his  first  ball. 

Beyond  the  shop  there  was  a  little  dark  room  for 
the  shop-boy.  There  sat  Fetter  Nord  of  to-day  and 
came  to  an  understanding  with  Fetter  Nord  of  yes- 
terday. How  pale  and  cowardly  the  churl  looked. 
Now  he  heard  what  he  really  was.  A  thief  and  a 
miser.  Did  he  know  the  seventh  commandment? 
By  rights  he  ought  to  have  forty  stripes.  That  was 
what  he  deserved. 

God  be  blessed  and  praised  for  having  let  him  go 
to  the  ball  and  get  a  new  view  of  it  all.  Usch! 
what  ugly  thoughts  he  had  had ;  but  now  it  was  quite 
changed.  As  if  riches  were  worth  sacrificing  con- 
science and  the  soul's  freedom  for  their  sake!  As  if 
they  were  worth  as  much  as  a  white  mouse,  if  the 
heart  could  not  be  glad  at  the  same  time!  He 
clapped  his  hands  and  cried  out  in  joy  —  that  he  was 
free,  free,  free!  There  was  not  even  a  longing  to 
possess  the  fifty  crowns  in  his  heart.  How  good  it 
was  to  be  happy ! 

When  he  had  gone  to  bed,  he  thought  that  he 
would  show  Halfvorson  the  fifty  crowns  early  the 
next  morning.  Then  he  became  uneasy  that  the 
tradesman  might  come  into  the  shop  before  him 
the  next  morning,  search  for  the  note  and  find  it. 
He  might  easily  think  that  Fetter  Nord  had  hidden 
it  to  keep  it.  The  thought  gave  him  no  peace.  He 
tried  to  shake  it  off,  but  he  could  not  succeed.  He 
could  not  sleep.  So  he  rose,  crept  into  the  shop  and 


14  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

felt  about  till  he  found  the  fifty  crowns.  Then  he 
fell  asleep  with  the  note  under  his  pillow. 

An  hour  later  he  awoke.  A  light  shone  sharply 
in  his  eyes;  a  hand  was  fumbling  under  his  pillow 
and  a  rumbling  voice  was  scolding  and  swearing. 

Before  the  boy  was  really  awake,  Halfvorson  had 
the  note  in  his  hand  and  showed  it  to  the  two 
women,  who  stood  in  the  doorway  to  his  room. 
"You  see  that  I  was  right,"  said  Halfvorson.  "You 
see  that  it  was  well  worth  while  for  me  to  drag  you 
up  to  bear  witness  against  him  !  You  see  that  he  is 
a  thief!" 

"No,  no,  no,"  screamed  poor  Fetter  Nord.  "I 
did  not  wish  to  steal.  I  only  hid  the  note." 

Halfvorson  heard  nothing.  Both  the  women  stood 
with  their  backs  turned  to  the  room,  as  if  deter- 
mined to  neither  hear  nor  see. 

Fetter  Nord  sat  up  in  bed.  He  looked  all  of  a 
sudden  pitifully  weak  and  small.  His  tears  were 
streaming.  He  wailed  aloud. 

"Uncle,"  said  Edith,  "he  is  weeping." 

"Let  him  weep,"  said  Halfvorson,  "let  him 
weep ! "  And  he  walked  forward  and  looked  at  the 
boy.  "You  can  weep  all  you  like,"  he  said,  "but 
that  does  not  take  me  in." 

"Oh,  oh,"  cried  Fetter  Nord,  "I  am  no  thief.  I 
hid  the  note  as  a  joke  —  to  make  you  angry.  I 
wanted  to  pay  you  back  for  the  mice.  I  am  not  a 
thief.  Will  no  one  listen  to  me.  I  am  not  a 
thief." 

"Uncle,"  said  Edith,  "if  you  have  tortured  him 
enough  now,  perhaps  we  may  go  back  to  bed  ?  " 

"I  know,  of  course,  that  it  sounds  terrible,"  said 
Halfvorson,  "but  it  cannot  be  helped."  He  was 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD      15 

gay,  in  very  high  spirits.  "I  have  had  my  eye  on 
you  for  a  long  time,"  he  said  to  the  boy.  "You 
have  always  something  you  are  tucking  away  when  I 
come  into  the  shop.  But  now  I  have  caught  you. 
Now  I  have  witnesses,  and  now  I  am  going  for  the 
police." 

The  boy  gave  a  piercing  scream.  "  Will  no  one 
help  me,  will  no  one  help  me? "  he  cried.  Halfvor- 
son  was  gone,  and  the  old  woman  who  managed  his 
house  came  up  to  him. 

"  Get  up  and  dress  yourself,  Fetter  Nord !  Half- 
vorson  has  gone  for  the  police,  and  while  he  is  away 
you  can  escape.  The  young  lady  can  go  out  into 
the  kitchen  and  get  you  a  little  food.  I  will  pack 
your  things." 

The  terrible  weeping  instantly  ceased.  After  a 
short  time  of  hurry  the  boy  was  ready.  He  kissed 
both  the  women  on  the  hand,  humbly,  like  a  whipped 
dog.  And  then  off  he  ran. 

They  stood  in  the  door  and  looked  after  him. 
When  he  was  gone,  they  drew  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  What  will  Halfvorson  say  ?"  said  Edith. 

"He  will   be  glad,"  answered   the  housekeeper. 

"  He  put  the  money  there  for  the  boy,  I  think.  I 
guess  that  he  wanted  to  be  rid  of  him." 

"  But  why  ?  The  boy  was  the  best  one  we  have 
had  in  the  shop  for  many  years. " 

"  He  probably  did  not  want  him  to  give  testimony 
in  the  affair  with  the  brandy. " 

Edith  stood  silent  and  breathed  quickly.  "  It  is 
so  base,  so  base,"  she  murmured.  She  clenched 
her  fist  towards  the  office  and  towards  the  little  pane 
in  the  door,  through  which  Halfvorson  could  see  into 
the  shop.  She  would  have  liked,  she  too,  to  have 


1 6  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

fled  out  into  the  world,  away  from  all  this  meanness. 
She  heard  a  sound  far  in,  in  the  shop.  She  listened, 
went  nearer,  followed  the  noise,  and  at  last  found 
behind  a  keg  of  herring  the  cage  of  Fetter  Nord's 
white  mice. 

She  took  it  up,  put  it  on  the  counter,  and  opened 
the  cage  door.  Mouse  after  mouse  scampered  out 
and  disappeared  behind  boxes  and  barrels. 

"May  you  flourish  and  increase,"  said  Edith. 
" May  you  do  injury  and  revenge  your  master! " 


II 

THE  little  town  lay  friendly  and  contented  under 
its  red  hill.  It  was  so  embedded  in  green 
that  the  church  tower  only  just  stuck  up  out  of  it. 
Garden  after  garden  crowded  one  another  on  narrow 
terraces  up  the  slope,  and  when  they  could  go  no 
further  in  that  direction,  they  leaped  with  their 
bushes  and  trees  across  the  street  and  spread  them- 
selves out  between  the  scattered  farmhouses  and  on 
the  narrow  strips  of  earth  about  them,  until  they 
were  stopped  by  the  broad  river. 

Complete  silence  and  quiet  reigned  in  the  town. 
Not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen ;  only  trees  and  bushes, 
and  now  and  again  a  house.  The  only  sound  to  be 
heard  was  the  rolling  of  balls  in  the  bowling-alley, 
like  distant  thunder  on  a  summer  day.  It  belonged 
to  the  silence. 

But  now  the  uneven  stones  of  the  market-place 
were  ground  under  iron-shod  heels.  The  noise  of 
coarse  voices  thundered  against  the  walls  of  the 
town-hall  and  the  church  was  thrown  back  from  the 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD      17 

mountain,  and  hastened  unchecked  down  the  long 
street.  Four  wayfarers  disturbed  the  noonday 
peace. 

Alas,  for  the  sweet  silence,  the  holiday  peace  of 
years !  How  terrified  they  were !  One  could  almost 
see  them  betaking  themselves  in  flight  up  the  moun- 
tain slopes. 

One  of  the  noisy  crew  who  broke  into  the  village 
was  Fetter  Nord,  the  Varmland  boy,  who  six  years 
before  had  run  away,  accused  of  theft.  Those  who 
were  with  him  were  three  longshoremen  from  the 
big  commercial  town  that  lies  only  a  few  miles 
away. 

How  had  little  Fetter  Nord  been  getting  on  ?  He 
had  been  getting  on  well.  He  had  found  one  of  the 
most  sensible  of  friends  and  companions. 

As  he  ran  away  from  the  village  in  the  dark,  rainy 
February  morning,  the  polska  tunes  seethed  and 
roared  in  his  ears.  And  one  of  them  was  more 
persistent  than  all  the  others.  It  was  the  one  they 
all  had  sung  during  the  ring  dance. 

Christmas  time  has  come, 

Christmas  time  has  come, 

And  after  Christmas  time  comes  Easter. 

That  is  not  true  at  all, 

That  is  not  true  at  all, 

For  Lent  comes  after  Christmas  feasting. 

The  fugitive  heard  it  so  distinctly,  so  distinctly. 
And  then  the  wisdom  that  is  hidden  in  the  old  ring 
dance  forced  itself  upon  the  little  pleasure-loving 
Varmland  boy,  forced  itself  into  his  very  fibre, 
blended  with  every  drop  of  blood,  soaked  into  his 
brain  and  marrow.  It  is  so;  that  is  the  meaning. 

2 


1 8  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Between  Christmas  and  Easter,  between  the  festivals 
of  birth  and  death,  comes  life's  fasting.  One  shall 
ask  nothing  of  life;  it  is  a  poor,  miserable  fast. 
One  shall  never  trust  it,  however  it  may  appear. 
The  next  moment  it  is  gray  and  ugly  again.  It  is 
not  its  fault,  poor  thing,  it  cannot  help  it ! 

Fetter  Nord  felt  almost  proud  at  having  cheated 
life  out  of  its  most  profound  secret. 

He  thought  he  saw  the  pallid  Spirit  of  Fasting 
creeping  about  over  the  earth  in  the  shape  of  a  beg- 
gar with  Lenten  twigs1  in  her  hand.  And  he  heard 
how  she  hissed  at  him :  "  You  have  wished  to  cele- 
brate the  festival  of  joy  and  merry  moods  in  the 
midst  of  the  time  of  fasting,  which  is  called  life. 
Therefore  shame  and  dishonor  shall  befall  you,  until 
you  change  your  ways. " 

He  had  changed  his  ways,  and  the  Spirit  of  Fast- 
ing had  protected  him.  He  had  never  needed  to  go 
farther  than  to  the  big  town,  for  he  was  never  fol- 
lowed. And  in  its  working  quarter  the  Spirit  of 
Fasting  had  her  dwelling.  Fetter  Nord  found  work 
in  a  machine  shop.  He  grew  strong  and  energetic. 
He  became  serious  and  thrifty.  He  had  fine  Sun- 
day clothes;  he  acquired  new  knowledge,  borrowed 
books  and  went  to  lectures.  There  was  nothing 
really  left  of  little  Fetter  Nord  but  his  white  hair 
and  his  brown  eyes. 

That  night  had  broken  something  in  him,  and  the 
heavy  work  at  the  machine-shop  made  the  break  ever 
bigger,  so  that  the  wild  Varmland  boy  had  crept 
quite  out  through  it.  He  no  longer  talked  nonsense, 

1  In  Sweden,  just  before  Easter,  bunches  of  birch  twigs  with 
small  feathers  tied  on  the  ends,  are  sold  everywhere  on  the  streets. 
The  origin  of  this  custom  is  unknown.  —  TRANS. 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD      ig 

for  no  one  was  allowed  to  speak  in  the  shop,  and  he 
soon  learned  silent  ways.  He  no  longer  invented 
anything  new,  for  since  he  had  to  look  after  springs 
and  wheels  in  earnest,  he  no  longer  found  them 
amusing.  He  never  fell  in  love,  for  he  could  not  be 
interested  in  the  women  of  the  working  quarter, 
after  he  had  learned  to  know  the  beauties  of  his 
native  town.  He  had  no  mice,  no  squirrels,  nothing 
to  play  with.  He  had  no  time;  he  understood  that 
such  things  were  useless,  and  he  thought  with 
horror  of  the  time  when  he  used  to  fight  with  street 
boys. 

Fetter  Nord  did  not  believe  that  life  could  be  any- 
thing but  gray,  gray,  gray.  Fetter  Nord  always  had 
a  dull  time,  but  he  was  so  used  to  it  that  he  did  not 
notice  it.  Fetter  Nord  was  proud  of  himself  because 
he  had  become  so  virtuous.  He  dated  his  good  be- 
havior from  that  night  when  Joy  failed  him  and  Fast- 
ing became  his  companion  and  friend. 

But  how  could  the  virtuous  Fetter  Nord  be  coming 
to  the  village  on  a  work-day,  accompanied  by 
three  boon-companions,  who  were  loafers  and 
drunken  ? 

He  had  always  been  a  good  boy,  poor  Petter.Nord. 
And  he  had  always  tried  to  help  those  three  good- 
for-nothings  as  well  as  he  could,  although  he  despised 
them.  He  had  come  with  wood  to  their  miserable 
hovel,  when  the  winter  was  most  severe,  and  he  had 
patched  and  mended  their  clothes.  The  men  held 
together  like  brothers,  principally  because  they  were 
all  three  named  Fetter.  That  name  united  them 
much  more  than  if  they  had  been  born  brothers. 
And  now  they  allowed  the  boy  on  account  of  that 
name  to  do  them  friendly  services,  and  when  they 


20  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

had  got  their  grog  ready  and  settled  themselves  com- 
fortably on  their  wooden  chairs,  they  entertained 
him,  sitting  and  darning  the  gaping  holes  in  their 
stockings,  with  gallows  humor  and  adventurous  lies. 
Fetter  Nord  liked  it,  although  he  would  not  acknowl- 
edge it.  They  were  now  for  him  almost  what  the 
mice  had  been  formerly. 

Now  it  happened  that  these  wharf-rats  had  heard 
some  gossip  from  the  village.  And  after  the  space 
of  six  years  they  brought  Fetter  Nord  information 
that  Halfvorson  had  put  the  fifty  crowns  out  for  him 
to  disqualify  him  as  a  witness.  And  in  their  opinion 
Fetter  Nord  ought  to  go  back  to  the  town  and  punish 
Halfvorson. 

But  Fetter  Nord  was  sensible  and  deliberate,  and 
equipped  with  the  wisdom  of  this  world.  He 
would  not  have  anything  to  do  with  such  a  proposal. 

The  Fetters  spread  the  story  about  through  the 
whole  quarter.  Every  one  said  to  Fetter  Nord: 
"  Go  back  and  punish  Halfvorson,  then  you  will  be 
arrested,  and  there  will  be  a  trial,  and  the  thing  will 
get  into  the  papers,  and  the  fellow's  shame  will  be 
known  throughout  all  the  land." 

But  Fetter  Nord  would  not.  It  might  be  amus- 
ing, but  revenge  is  a  costly  pleasure,  and  Fetter 
Nord  knew  that  Life  is  poor.  Life  cannot  afford 
such  amusements. 

One  morning  the  three  men  had  come  to  him  and 
said  that  they  were  going  in  his  place  to  beat  Half- 
vorson, "that  justice  should  be  done  on  earth,"  as 
they  said. 

Fetter  Nord  threatened  to  kill  all  three  of  them  if 
they  went  one  step  on  the  way  to  the  village. 

Then  one  of  them  who  was  little  and  short,  and 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     21 

whose  name  was  Long-Petter,  made  a  speech  to 
Fetter  Nord. 

"This  earth,"  he  said,  is  an  apple  hanging  by  a 
string  over  a  fire  to  roast.  By  the  fire  I  mean  the 
kingdom  of  the  evil  one,  Fetter  Nord,  and  the  apple 
must  hang  near  the  fire  to  be  sweet  and  tender ;  but 
if  the  string  breaks  and  the  apple  falls  into  the  fire, 
it  is  destroyed.  Therefore  the  string  is  very  im- 
portant, Fetter  Nord.  Do  you  understand  what  is 
meant  by  the  string?  " 

"I  guess  it  must  be  a  steel  wire,"  said  Fetter 
Nord. 

"By  the  string  I  mean  justice,"  said  Long-Petter 
with  deep  seriousness.  "  If  there  is  no  justice  on 
earth,  everything  falls  into  the  fire.  Therefore  the 
avenger  may  not  refuse  to  punish,  or  if  he  will  not 
do  it,  others  must." 

"This  is  the  last  time  I  will  offer  any  of  you  any 
grog,"  said  Fetter  Nord,  quite  unmoved  by  the 
speech. 

"Yes,  it  can't  be  helped,"  said  Long-Petter,  "jus- 
tice must  be  done." 

"We  do  not  do  it  to  be  thanked  by  you,  but  in 
order  that  the  honorable  name  of  Fetter  shall  not  be 
brought  to  disrepute,"  said  one,  whose  name  was 
Rulle-Petter,  and  who  was  tall  and  morose. 

"  Really,  is  the  name  so  highly  esteemed ! "  said 
Fetter  Nord,  contemptuously. 

"  Yes,  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  they  are  begin- 
ning to  say  everywhere  in  all  the  saloons  that  you 
must  have  meant  to  steal  the  fifty  crowns,  since  you 
will  not  have  the  shopkeeper  punished." 

Those  words  bit  in  deep.  Fetter  Nord  started  up 
and  said  that  he  would  go  and  beat  the  shopkeeper. 


22  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

"  Yes,  and  we  will  go  with  you  and  help  you,"  said 
the  loafers. 

And  so  they  started  off,  four  men  strong,  to  the 
village.  At  first  Fetter  Nord  was  gloomy  and  surly, 
and  much  more  angry  with  his  friends  than  with  his 
enemy.  But  when  he  came  to  the  bridge  over  the 
river,  he  became  quite  changed.  He  felt  as  if  he  had 
met  there  a  little,  weeping  fugitive,  and  had  crept 
into  him.  And  as  he  became  more  at  home  in  the 
old  Fetter  Nord  he  felt  what  a  grievous  wrong  the 
shopkeeper  had  done  him.  Not  only  because  he 
had  tried  to  tempt  him  and  ruin  him,  but,  worst  of 
all,  because  he  had  driven  him  away  from  that  town, 
where  Fetter  Nord  could  have  remained  Fetter  Nord 
all  the  days  of  his  life.  Oh,  what  fun  he  had  had 
in  those  days,  how  happy  and  glad  he  had  been,  how 
open  his  heart,  how  beautiful  the  world  !  Lord  God, 
if  he  had  only  been  allowed  always  to  live  here! 
And  he  thought  of  what  he  was  now  —  silent  and 
stupid,  serious  and  industrious  —  quite  like  a 
prodigal. 

He  grew  passionately  angry  with  Halfvbrson,  and 
instead  of,  as  before,  following  his  companions,  he 
dashed  past  them. 

But  the  tramps,  who  had  not  come  merely  to  pun- 
ish Halfvorson,  but  also  to  let  their  wrath  break 
loose,  hardly  knew  how  to  begin.  There  was  noth- 
ing for  an  angry  man  to  do  here.  There  was  not  a 
dog  to  chase,  not  a  street-sweeper  to  pick  a  quarrel 
with,  nor  a  fine  gentleman  at  whom  to  throw  an 
insult. 

It  was  early  in  the  year;  the  spring  was  just  turn- 
ing into  summer.  It  was  the  white  time  of  cherry 
and  hawthorn  blossoms,  when  bunches  of  lilacs 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     2$ 

cover  the  high,  round  bushes,  and  the  air  is  full  of 
the  fragrance  of  the  apple-blossoms.  These  men 
who  had  come  direct  from  paved  streets  and  wharves 
to  this  realm  of  flowers  were  strangely  affected 
by  it.  Three  pairs  of  fists  that  till  now  had  been 
fiercely  clenched,  relaxed,  and  three  pairs  of  heels 
thundered  a  little  less  violently  against  the  pave- 
ment. 

From  the  market-place  they  saw  a  pathway  that 
wound  up  the  hill.  Along  it  grew  young  cherry- 
trees  which  formed  vaulted  arches  with  their  white 
tops.  The  arch  was  light  and  floating,  and  the 
branches  absurdly  slender,  altogether  weak,  delicate 
and  youthful. 

The  cherry-tree  path  attracted  the  eyes  of  the  men 
against  their  will.  What  an  unpractical  hole  it  was, 
where  people  planted  cherry  trees,  where  any  one 
could  take  the  cherries.  The  three  Fetters  had 
considered  it  before  as  a  nest  of  iniquity,  full  of 
cruelty  and  tyranny.  Now  they  began  to  laugh  at  it, 
and  even  to  despise  it  a  little. 

But  the  fourth  one  of  the  company  did  not  laugh. 
His  longing  for  revenge  was  seething  ever  more 
fiercely,  for  he  felt  that  this  was  the  town  where  he 
ought  to  have  lived  and  labored.  It  was  his  lost 
paradise.  And  without  paying  any  attention  to  the 
others  he  walked  quickly  up  the  street. 

They  followed  him;  and  when  they  saw  that  there 
was  only  one  street,  and  when  they  saw  only  flowers, 
and  more  flowers  the  whole  length  of  it,  their  scorn 
and  their  good  humor  increased.  It  was  perhaps 
the  first  time  in  their  lives  that  they  had  ever  noticed 
flowers,  but  here  they  could  not  help  it,  for  the 
clusters  of  lilac  blossoms  brushed  off  their  caps 


24  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

and  the  petals  of  cherry-blossoms  rained  down  over 
them. 

"What  kind  of  people  do  you  suppose  live  in  this 
town  ?  "  said  Long-Petter,  musingly. 

"Bees,"  answered  Cobbler-Fetter,  who  had  re- 
ceived his  name  because  he  had  once  lived  in  the 
same  house  as  a  shoemaker. 

Of  course,  little  by  little,  they  perceived  a  few 
people.  In  the  windows,  behind  shining  panes  and 
white  curtains,  appeared  young,  pretty  faces,  and 
they  saw  children  playing  on  the  terraces.  But  no 
noise  disturbed  the  silence.  It  seemed  to  them  as 
if  the  trump  of  the  Day  of  Doom  itself  would  not  be 
able  to  wake  this  town.  What  could  they  do  with 
themselves  in  such  a  town  ! 

They  went  into  a  .shop  and  bought  some  beer. 
There  they  asked  several  questions  of  the  shopman 
in  a  terrible  voice.  They  asked  if  the  fire-brigade 
had  their  engines  in  order,  and  wondered  if  there 
were  clappers  in  the  church  bells,  if  there  should 
happen  to  be  an  alarm. 

They  drank  their  beer  in  the  street  and  threw  the 
bottles  away.  One,  two,  three,  all  the  bottles  at 
the  same  corner,  thunder  and  crash,  and  the  splin- 
ters flew  about  their  ears. 

They  heard  steps  behind  them,  real  steps;  voices, 
loud,  distinct  voices;  laughter,  much  laughter,  and, 
moreover,  a  rattling  as  if  of  metal.  They  were  ap- 
palled, and  drew  back  into  a  doorway.  It  sounded 
like  a  whole  company. 

It  was  one,  too,  but  of  young  girls.  All  the 
maids  of  the  town  were  going  out  in  a  body  to  the 
pastures  to  milk. 

It  made  the  deepest  impression  on  these  city  men, 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     2$ 

these  citizens  of  the  world.  The  maids  of  the  town 
with  milk-pails  !  It  was  almost  touching ! 

They  suddenly  jumped  out  of  their  doorway  and 
cried  "  Boo ! " 

The  whole  troop  of  girls  scattered  instantly. 
They  screamed  and  ran.  Their  skirts  fluttered; 
their  head-cloths  loosened;  their  milk-pails  rolled 
about  the  street. 

And  at  the  same  time,  along  the  whole  street,  was 
heard  a  deafening  sound  of  gates  and  doors  slammed 
to,  of  hooks  and  bolts  and  locks. 

Farther  down  the  street  stood  a  big  linden  tree,  and 
under  it  sat  an  old  woman  by  a  table  with  candies 
and  cakes.  She  did  not  move ;  she  did  not  look  round ; 
she  only  sat  still.  She  was  not  asleep  either. 

"She  is  made  of  wood,"  said  Cobbler-Fetter. 

"No,  of  clay,"  said  Rulle-Petter. 

They  walked  abreast,  all  three.  Just  in  front  of 
the  old  woman  they  began  to  reel.  They  staggered 
against  her  table.  And  the  old  woman  began  to 
scold. 

"Neither  of  wood  nor  of  clay,"  they  said, — 
"venom,  only  venom." 

During  all  this  time  Fetter  Nord  had  not  spoken 
to  them,  but  now,  at  last,  they  were  directly  in 
front  of  Halfvorson's  shop,  and  there  he  was  waiting 
for  them. 

"This  is,  undeniably,  my  affair,"  he  said  proudly, 

and  pointed  at  the  shop.     "  I  wish  to  go  in  alone  and 

attend  to  it.     If  I  do  not  succeed,  then  you  may  try. " 

.They   nodded.      "Go   ahead,   Fetter   Nord!     We 

will  wait  outside." 

Fetter  Nord  went  in,  found  a  young  man  alone  in 
the  shop,  and  asked  about  Halfvorson.  He  heard 


26  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

that  the  latter  had  gone  away.  He  had  quite  a  talk 
with  the  clerk,  and  obtained  a  good  deal  of  informa- 
tion about  his  master. 

Halfvorson  had  never  been  accused  of  illicit  trade. 
How  he  had  behaved  towards  Fetter  Nord  every  one 
knew,  but  no  one  spoke  of  that  affair  any  more. 
Halfvorson  had  risen  in  the  world,  and  now  he  was 
not  at  all  dangerous.  He  was  not  inhuman  to  his 
debtors,  and  had  ceased  to  spy  on  his  shop-boys. 
The  last  few  years  he  had  devoted  himself  to  gar- 
dening. He  had  laid  out  a  garden  around  his  house 
in  the  town,  and  a  kitchen  garden  near  the  custom- 
house. He  worked  so  eagerly  in  his  gardens  that 
he  scarcely  thought  of  amassing  money. 

Fetter  Nord  felt  a  stab  in  his  heart.  Of  course 
the  man  was  good.  He  had  remained  in  paradise. 
Of  course  any  one  was  good  who  lived  there. 

Edith  Halfvorson  was  still  with  her  uncle,  but 
she  had  been  ill  for  a  while.  Her  lungs  were  weak, 
ever  since  an  attack  of  pneumonia  in  the  winter. 

While  Fetter  Nord  was  listening  to  all  this,  and 
more  too,  the  three  men  stood  outside  and  waited. 

In  Halfvorson' s  shadeless  garden  a  bower  of  birch 
had  been  arranged  so  that  Edith  might  lie  there  in 
the  beautiful,  warm  spring  days.  She  regained  her 
strength  slowly,  but  her  life  was  no  longer  in 
danger. 

Some  people  make  one  feel  that  they  are  not  able 
to  live.  At  their  first  illness  they  lie  down  and  die. 
Halfvorson's  niece  was  long  since  weary  of  every- 
thing, of  the  office,  of  the  dim  little  shop,  of 
money-getting.  When  she  was  seventeen  years  old, 
she  had  the  incentive  of  winning  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances. Then  she  undertook  to  try  to  keep 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     2^ 

Halfvorson  in  the  path  of  virtue,  but  now  everything 
was  accomplished.  She  saw  no  prospect  of  escaping 
from  the  monotony  of  her  life.  She  might  as  well 
die. 

She  was  of  an  elastic  nature,  like  a  steel  spring: 
a  bundle  of  nerves  and  vivacity,  when  anything 
troubled  or  tormented  her.  How  she  had  worked 
with  strategy  and  artifice,  with  womanly  goodness 
and  womanly  daring,  before  she  had  reached  the 
point  with  her  uncle  when  she  was  sure  that  there 
was  no  longer  danger  of  any  Fetter  Nord  affairs! 
But  now  that  he  was  tamed  and  subdued,  she  had 
nothing  to  interest  her.  Yes,  and  yet  she  would  not 
die!  She  lay  and  thought  of  what  she  would  do 
when  she  was  well  again. 

Suddenly  she  started  up,  hearing  some  one  say  in 
a  very  loud  voice  that  he  alone  wished  to  settle  with 
Halfvorson.  And  then  another  voice  answered :  "  Go 
ahead,  Fetter  Nord ! " 

Fetter  Nord  was  the  most  terrible,  the  most  fatal 
name  in  the  world.  It  meant  a  revival  of  all  the  old 
troubles.  Edith  rose  with  trembling  limbs,  and 
just  then  three  dreadful  creatures  came  around  the 
corner  and  stopped  to  stare  at  her.  There  was  only 
a  low  rail  and  a  thin  hedge  between  her  and  the 
street. 

Edith  was  alone.  The  maids  had  gone  to  milk, 
and  Halfvorson  was  working  in  his  garden  by  the 
custom-house,  although  he  had  told  the  shop-boy  to 
say  that  he  had  gone  away,  for  he  was  ashamed  of 
his  passion  for  gardening.  Edith  was  terribly  fright- 
ened at  the  three  men  as  well  as  at  the  one  who  had 
gone  into  the  shop.  She  was  sure  that  they  wished 
to  do  her  harm.  So  she  turned  and  ran  up  the 


28  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

mountain  by  the  steep,  slippery  path  and  the  narrow, 
rotten  wooden  steps  which  led  from  terrace  to 
terrace. 

The  strange  men  thought  it  too  delightfully  funny 
that  she  ran  from  them.  They  could  not  resist  pre- 
tending that  they  wished  to  catch  her.  One  of  them 
climbed  up  on  the  railing,  and  all  three  shouted 
with  a  terrible  voice. 

Edith  ran  as  one  runs  in  dreams,  panting,  falling, 
terrified  to  death,  with  a  horrible  feeling  of  not  get- 
ting away  from  one  spot.  All  sorts  of  emotions 
stormed  through  her,  and  shook  her  so  that  she 
thought  she  was  going  to  die.  Yes,  if  one  of  those 
men  laid  his  hand  on  her,  she  knew  that  she  should 
die.  When  she  had  reached  the  highest  terrace,  and 
dared  to  look  back,  she  found  that  the  men  were  still 
in  the  street,  and  were  no  longer  looking  at  her. 
Then  she  threw  herself  down  on  the  ground,  quite 
powerless.  The  exertion  had  been  greater  than  she 
could  bear.  She  felt  something  burst  in  her.  Then 
blood  streamed  from  her  lips. 

She  was  found  by  the  maids  as  they  went  home 
from  the  milking.  She  was  then  half  dead.  For 
the  moment  she  was  brought  back  to  life,  but  no  one 
dared  to  hope  that  she  could  live  long. 

She  could  not  talk  that  day  enough  to  tell  in  what 
way  she  had  been  frightened.  Had  she  done  so,  it 
is  uncertain  if  the  strange  men  had  come  alive  from 
the  town.  They  fared  badly  enough  as  it  was.  For 
after  Fetter  Nord  had  come  out  to  them  again,  and 
had  told  them  that  Halfvorson  was  not  at  home,  all 
four  of  them  in  good  accord  went  out  through  the 
gates,  and  found  a  sunny  slope  where  they  could 
sleep  away  the  time  until  the  shopman  returned. 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     29 

But  in  the  afternoon,  when  all  the  men  of  the 
town,  who  had  been  working  in  the  fields,  came 
home  again,  the  women  told  them  about  the  tramps' 
visit,  about  their  threatening  questions  in  the  shop 
where  they  had  bought  the  beer,  and  about  all  their 
boisterous  behavior.  The  women  exaggerated  and 
magnified  everything,  for  they  had  sat  at  home  and 
frightened  one  another  the  whole  afternoon.  Their 
husbands  believed  that  their  houses  and  homes  were 
in  danger.  They  determined  to  capture  the  disturb- 
ers of  the  peace,  found  a  stout-hearted  man  to  lead 
them,  took  thick  cudgels  with  them  and  started  off. 

The  whole  town  was  alive.  The  women  came  out 
on  their  doorsteps  and  frightened  one  another.  It 
was  both  terrible  and  exciting. 

Before  long  the  captors  returned  with  their  game. 
They  had  them  all  four.  They  had  made  a  ring  round 
them  while  they  slept  and  captured  them.  No 
heroism  had  been  required  for  the  deed. 

Now  they  came  back  to  the  town  with  them,  driv- 
ing them  as  if  they  had  been  animals.  A  mad  thirst 
for  revenge  had  seized  upon  the  conquerors.  They 
struck  for  the  pleasure  of  striking.  When  one  of 
the  prisoners  clenched  his  fist  at  them,  he  received  a 
blow  on  the  head  which  knocked  him  down,  and 
thereupon  blows  hailed  upon  him,  until  he  got  up 
and  went  on.  The  four  men  were  almost  dead. 

The  old  poems  are  so  beautiful.  The  captured 
hero  sometimes  must  walk  in  chains  in  the  trium- 
phal procession  of  his  victorious  enemy.  But  he  is 
proud  and  beautiful  still  in  adversity.  And  looks 
follow  him  as  well  as  the  fortunate  one  who  has 
conquered  him.  Beauty's  tears  and  wreaths  belong 
to  him  still,  even  in  misfortune. 


30  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

But  who  could  be  enraptured  of  poor  Fetter  Nord  ? 
His  coat  was  torn  and  his  tow-colored  hair  sticky 
with  blood.  He  received  the  most  blows,  for  he 
offered  the  most  resistance.  He  looked  terrible,  as 
he  walked.  He  roared  without  knowing  it.  Boys 
caught  hold  of  him,  and  he  dragged  them  long  dis- 
tances. Once  he  stopped  and  flung  off  the  crowd  in 
the  street.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  escape,  a  blow 
from  a  cudgel  fell  on  his  head  and  knocked  him 
down.  He  rose  up  again,  half  stunned,  and  stag- 
gered on,  blows  raining  upon  him,  and  the  boys 
hanging  like  leeches  to  his  arms  and  legs. 

They  met  the  old  Mayor,  who  was  on  his  way 
home  from  his  game  of  whist  in  the  garden  of  the 
inn.  "Yes,"  he  said  to  the  advance  guard,  — "yes, 
take  them  to  the  prison." 

He  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  the  procession, 
shouted  and  ordered.  In  a  second  everything  was 
in  line.  Prisoners  and  guards  marched  in  peace  and 
order.  The  villagers'  cheeks  flushed;  some  of  them 
threw  down  their  cudgels ;  others  put  them  on  their 
shoulders  like  muskets.  And  so  the  prisoners  were 
transferred  into  the  keeping  of  the  police,  and  were 
taken  to  the  prison  in  the  market-place. 

Those  who  had  saved  the  town  stood  a  long  time 
in  the  market-place  and  told  of  their  courage  and  of 
their  great  exploit.  And  in  the  little  room  of  the 
inn,  where  the  smoke  is  as  thick  as  a  cloud,  and  the 
great  men  of  the  town  mix  their  midnight  toddy, 
more  is  heard  of  the  deed,  magnified.  They  grow 
bigger  in  their  rocking-chairs;  they  swell  in  their 
sofa  corners;  they  are  all  heroes.  What  force  is 
slumbering  in  that  little  town  of  mighty  memories ! 
Thou  formidable  inheritance,  thou  old  Viking  blood ! 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     31 

The  old  Mayor  did  not  like  the  whole  affair.  He 
could  not  quite  reconcile  himself  to  the  stirring  of 
the  old  Viking  blood.  He  could  not  sleep  for  think- 
ing of  it,  and  went  out  again  into  the  street  and 
strolled  slowly  towards  the  square. 

It  was  a  mild  spring  night.  The  church  clock's 
only  hand  po?nted  to  eleven.  The  balls  had  ceased 
to  roll  on  the  bowling-alley.  The  curtains  were 
drawn  down.  The  houses  seemed  to  sleep  with 
closed  eyelids.  The  steep  hill  behind  was  black, 
as  if  in  mourning.  But  in  the  midst  of  all  the  sleep 
there  was  one  thing  awake  —  the  fragrance  of  the 
flowers  did  not  sleep.  It  stole  over  the  linden 
hedges ;  poured  out  from  the  gardens ;  rushed  up  and 
down  the  street ;  climbed  up  to  every  window  stand- 
ing open,  to  every  skylight  that  sucked  in  fresh  air. 

Every  one  whom  the  fragrance  reached  instantly 
saw  before  him  his  little  town,  although  the  dark- 
ness had  gently  settled  down  over  it.  He  saw  it  as 
a  village  of  flowers,  where  it  was  not  house  by  house, 
but  garden  by  garden.  He  saw  the  cherry  trees 
that  raised  their  white  arches  over  the  steep  wood- 
path,  the  lilac  clusters,  the  swelling  buds  of  glorious 
roses,  the  proud  peonies,  and  the  drifts  of  flower- 
petals  on  the  ground  beneath  the  hawthorns. 

The  old  Mayor  was  deep  in  thought.  He  was  so 
wise  and  so  old.  Seventy  years  had  he  reached,  and 
for  fifty  he  had  managed  the  affairs  of  the  town. 
But  that  night  be  asked  himself  if  he  had  done 
right.  "I  had  the  town  in  my  hand,"  he  thought, 
"  but  I  have  not  made  it  anything  great. "  And  he 
thought  of  its  great  past,  and  was  the  more  uncertain 
if  he  had  done  right. 

He  stood  in  the   market-place,   looking  out  over 


32  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

the  river.  A  boat  came  with  oars.  A  few  villagers 
were  coming  home  from  a  picnic.  Girls  in  light 
dresses  held  the  oars.  They  steered  in  under  the 
arch  of  the  bridge,  but  there  the  current  was  strong 
and  they  were  drawn  back.  There  was  a  violent 
struggle.  Their  slender  bodies  were  bent  back- 
wards, until  they  lay  even  with  the  edge  of  the  boat. 
Their  soft  arm-muscles  tightened.  The  oars  bent 
like  bows.  The  noise  of  laughter  and  cries  filled  the 
air.  Again  and  again  the  current  conquered.  The 
boat  was  driven  back.  And  when  at  last  the  girls 
had  to  land  at  the  market  quay,  and  leave  the  boat 
for  men  to  take  home,  how  red  and  vexed  they  were, 
and  how  they  laughed !  How  their  laughter  echoed 
down  the  street!  How  their  broad,  shady  hats, 
their  light,  fluttering  summer  dresses  enlivened  the 
quiet  night. 

The  old  Mayor  saw  in  his  mind's  eye,  for  in  the 
darkness  he  could  not  see  them  distinctly,  their 
sweet,  young  faces,  their  beautiful  clear  eyes  and  red 
lips.  Then  he  straightened  himself  proudly  up. 
The  little  town  was  not  without  all  glory.  Other 
communities  could  boast  of  other  things,  but  he 
knew  no  place  richer  in  flowers  and  in  the  enchant- 
ing fairness  of  its  women. 

Then  the  old  man  thought  with  new-born  courage 
of  his  efforts.  He  need  not  fear  for  the  future  of  the 
town.  Such  a  town  did  not  need  to  protect  itself 
with  strict  laws. 

He  felt  compassion  on  the  unfortunate  prisoners. 
He  went  and  waked  the  justice  of  the  peace,  and 
talked  with  him.  And  the  two  were  of  one  mind. 
They  went  together  to  the  prison  and  set  Fetter 
Nord  and  his  companions  free. 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     33 

And  they  did  right.  For  the  little  town  is  like 
the  Milo  Aphrodite.  It  has  alluring  beauty,  and  it 
lacks  arms  to  hold  fast. 


Ill 

I  SHALL  almost  be  compelled  to  leave  reality, 
and  turn  to  the  world  of  saga  and  extravagance 
to  be  able  to  relate  what  now  happened.  If  young 
Fetter  Nord  had  been  Per,  the  Swineherd,  with  a 
gold  crown  under  his  hat,  it  would  all  have  seemed 
simple  and  natural.  But  no  one,  of  course,  will 
believe  me  if  I  say  that  Fetter  Nord  also  wore  a 
royal  crown  on  his  tow  hair.  No  one  can  ever  know 
how  many  wonderful  things  happen  in  that  little 
town.  No  one  can  guess  how  many  enchanted  prin- 
cesses are  waiting  there  for  the  shepherd  boy  of 
adventure. 

At  first  it  looked  as  if  there  were  to  be  no  more 
adventures.  For  when  Fetter  Nord  had  been  set 
free  by  the  old  Mayor,  and  for  the  second  time  had 
to  flee  in  shame  and  disgrace  from  the  town,  the 
same  thoughts  came  over  him  as  when  he  fled  the 
first  time.  The  polska  tunes  rang  again  suddenly 
in  his  ears,  and  loudest  among  them  all  sounded  the 
old  ring-dance. 

Christmas  time  has  come, 
Christmas  time  has  come, 
And  after  Christmas  time  comes  Easter. 
That  is  not  true  at  all, 
That  is  not  true  at  all, 
For  Lent  comes  after  Christmas  feasting. 
3 


34  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

And  he  saw  distinctly  the  pallid  Spirit  of  Fasting 
stealing  about  over  the  earth  with  her  bundle  of 
twigs  on  her  arm.  And  she  called  to  him  :  "  Spend- 
thrift, spendthrift!  You  have  wished  to  celebrate 
the  festival  of  revenge  and  reparation  during  the 
time  of  fasting,  that  is  called  life.  Can  you  afford 
such  extravagances,  foolish  one  ?  " 

Thereupon  he  had  again  sworn  obedience  and  be- 
come the  quiet  and  thrifty  workman.  He  again 
stood  peaceful  and  sensible  at  his  work.  No  one 
could  believe  that  it  was  he  who  had  roared  with 
rage  and  flung  about  the  people  in  the  street,  as  an 
elk  at  bay  shakes  off  the  dogs. 

A  few  weeks  later  Halfvorson  came  to  him  at  the 
machine-shop.  He  looked  him  up,  at  his  niece's 
desire.  She  wished,  if  possible,  to  speak  to  him  that 
same  day. 

Fetter  Nord  began  to  shake  and  tremble  when  he 
saw  Halfvorson.  It  was  as  if  he  had  seen  a  slippery 
snake.  He  did  not  know  which  he  wished  most  — 
to  strike  him  or  to  run  away  from  him ;  but  he  soon 
perceived  that  Halfvorson  looked  much  troubled. 

The  tradesman  looked  as  one  does  after  having 
been  out  in  a  strong  wind.  The  muscles  of  his  face 
were  drawn;  his  mouth  was  compressed;  his  eyes 
red  and  full  of  tears.  He  struggled  visibly  with 
some  sorrow.  The  only  thing  in  him  that  was  the 
same  was  his  voice.  It  was  as  inhumanly  expres- 
sionless as  ever. 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid  of  the  old  story  nor  of  the 
new  one  either,"  said  Halfvorson.  "It  is  known 
that  you  were  with  those  men  who  made  all  the 
trouble  with  us  the  other  day.  And  as  we  supposed 
that  they  came  from  here,  I  could  learn  where  you 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     35 

were.  Edith  is  going  to  die  soon,"  he  continued, 
and  his  whole  face  twitched  as  if  it  would  fall  to 
pieces.  "She  wishes  to  speak  to  you  before  she 
dies.  But  we  wish  you  no  harm." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  come, "  said  Fetter  Nord. 

Soon  they  were  both  on  board  the  steamer. 
Fetter  Nord  was  decked  out  in  his  fine  Sunday 
clothes.  Under  his  hat  played  and  smiled  all  the 
dreams  of  his  boyhood  in  a  veritable  kingly  crown; 
they  encircled  his  light  hair.  Edith's  message  made 
him  quite  dizzy.  Had  he  not  always  thought  that 
fine  ladies  would  love  him  ?  And  now  here  was  one 
who  wished  to  see  him  before  she  died.  Most  won- 
derful of  all  things  wonderful !  —  He  sat  and  thought 
of  her  as  she  had  been  formerly.  How  proud,  how 
alive!  And  now  she  was  going  to  die.  He  was  in 
such  sorrow  for  her  sake.  But  that  she  had  been 
thinking  of  him  all  these  years!  A  warm,  sweet 
melancholy  came  over  him. 

He  was  really  there  again,  the  old,  mad  Fetter 
Nord.  As  soon  as  he  approached  the  village  the 
Spirit  of  Fasting  went  away  from  him  with  disgust 
and  contempt. 

Halfvorson  could  not  keep  still  for  a  moment. 
The  heavy  gale,  which  he  alone  perceived,  swept  him 
forward  and  back  on  the  deck.  As  he  passed  Fetter, 
he  murmured  a  few  words,  so  that  the  latter  could 
know  by  what  paths  his  despairing  thoughts  wandered. 

"  They  found  her  on  the  ground,  half  dead  — 
blood  everywhere  about  her,"  he  said  once.  And 
another  time:  "Was  she  not  good?  Was  she  not 
beautiful?  How  could  such  things  come  to  her?" 
And  again :  "  She  has  made  me  good  too.  Could 
not  see  her  sitting  in  sorrow  all  day  long  and  ruin- 


36  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

ing  the  account-book  with  her  tears."  Then  this 
came :  "  A  clever  child,  besides.  Won  her  way  with 
me.  Made  my  home  pleasant.  Got  me  acquaint- 
ances among  fine  people.  Understood  what  she  was 
after,  but  could  not  resist  her. "  He  wandered  away 
to  the  bow  of  the  boat.  When  he  came  back  he 
said :  "  I  cannot  bear  to  have  her  die. " 

He  said  it  all  with  that  helpless  voice,  which  he 
could  not  subdue  or  control.  Fetter  Nord  had  a 
proud  feeling  that  such  a  man  as  he  who  wore  a  royal 
crown  on  his  brow  had  no  right  to  be  angry  with 
Halfvorson.  The  latter  was  separated  from  men  by 
his  infirmity,  and  could  not  win  their  love.  There- 
fore he  had  to  treat  them  all  as  enemies.  He  was  not 
to  be  measured  by  the  same  standard  as  other  people. 

Fetter  Nord  sank  again  into  his  dreams.  She  had 
remembered  him  all  these  years,  and  now  she  could 
not  die  before  she  had  seen  him.  Oh,  fancy  that  a 
young  girl  for  all  these  years  had  been  thinking  of 
him,  loving  him,  missing  him ! 

As  soon  as  they  landed  and  reached  the  trades- 
man's house,  he  was  taken  to  Edith,  who  was  wait- 
ing for  him  in  the  arbor. 

The  happy  Fetter  Nord  woke  from  his  dreams 
when  he  saw  her.  She  was  a  fair  vision,  this  girl, 
withering  away  in  emulation  with  the  rootless 
birches  around  her.  Her  big  eyes  had  darkened  and 
grown  clearer.  Her  hands  were  so  thin  and  trans- 
parent that  one  feared  to  touch  them  for  their 
fragility. 

And  it  was  she  who  loved  him.  Of  course  he  had 
to  love  her  instantly  in  return,  deeply,  dearly, 
ardently!  It  was  bliss,  after  so  many  years,  to  feel 
his  heart  glow  at  the  sight  of  a  fellow-being. 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     37 

He  had  stopped  motionless  at  the  entrance  of  the 
arbor,  while  eyes,  heart  and  brain  worked  most 
eagerly.  When  she  saw  how  he  stood  and  stared  at 
her,  she  began  to  smile  with  that  most  despairing 
smile  in  the  world,  the  smile  of  the  very  ill,  that 
says :  "  See,  this  is  what  I  have  become,  but  do  not 
count  on  me !  I  cannot  be  beautiful  and  charming 
any  longer.  I  must  die  soon." 

It  brought  him  back  to  reality.  He  saw  that  he 
had  to  do  not  with  a  vision,  but  with  a  spirit  which 
was  about  to  spread  its  wings,  and  therefore  had 
made  the  walls  of  its  prison  so  delicate  and  trans- 
parent. It  now  showed  so  plainly  in  his  face  and  in 
the  way  he  took  Edith's  hand,  that  he  all  at  once 
suffered  with  her  suffering,  —  that  he  had  forgotten 
everything  but  grief,  that  she  was  going  to  die.  The 
sick  girl  felt  the  same  pity  for  herself,  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

Oh,  what  sympathy  he  felt  for  her  from  the  first 
moment.  He  understood  instantly  that  she  would 
not  wish  to  show  her  emotion.  Of  course  it  was 
agitating  for  her  to  see  him,  whom  she  had  longed 
for  so  long,  but  it  was  her  weakness  that  had  made 
her  betray  herself.  She  naturally  would  not  like 
him  to  pay  any  attention  to  it.  And  so  he  began  on 
an  innocent  subject  of  conversation. 

"  Do  you  know  what  happened  to  my  white  mice? " 
he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  with  admiration.  He  seemed 
to  wish  to  make  the  way  easier  for  her.  "  I  let  them 
loose  in  the  shop,"  she  said.  "They  have  thriven 
well." 

"  No,  really !     Are  there  any  of  them  left  ?  " 

"  Halfvorson   says   that   he  will   never  be  rid  of 


38  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Fetter  Nerd's  mice.  They  have  revenged  you,  you 
understand,"  she  said  with  meaning. 

"It  was  a  very  good  race,"  answered  Fetter  Nord, 
proudly. 

The  conversation  lagged  for  a  while.  Edith  closed 
her  eyes,  as  if  to  rest,  and  he  kept  a  respectful  silence. 
His  last  answer  she  had  not  understood.  He  had 
not  responded  to  what  she  had  said  about  revenge. 
When  he  began  to  talk  of  the  mice,  she  believed 
that  he  understood  what  she  wished  to  say  to  him. 
She  knew  that  he  had  come  to  the  town  a  few  weeks 
before  to  be  revenged.  Poor  Fetter  Nord !  Many  a 
time  she  had  wondered  what  had  become  of  him. 
Many  a  night  had  the  cries  of  the  frightened  boy 
come  to  her  in  dreams.  It  was  partly  for  his  sake 
that  she  should  never  again  have  to  live  through 
such  a  night,  that  she  had  begun  to  reform  her  uncle, 
had  made  his  house  a  home  for  him,  had  let  the 
lonely  man  feel  the  value  of  having  a  sympathetic 
friend  near  him.  Her  lot  was  now  again  bound 
together  with  that  of  Fetter  Nord.  His  attempt  at 
revenge  had  frightened  her  to  death.  As  soon  as 
she  had  regained  her  strength  after  that  severe 
attack,  she  had  begged  Halfvorson  to  look  him 
up. 

And  Fetter  Nord  sat  there  and  believed  that  it 
was  for  love  she  had  called  him.  He  could  not 
know  that  she  believed  him  vindictive,  coarse,  de- 
graded, a  drunkard  and  a  bully.  He  who  was  an 
example  to  all  his  comrades  in  the  working  quarter, 
he  could  not  guess  that  she  had  summoned  him,  in 
order  to  preach  virtue  and  good  habits  to  him,  in 
order  to  say  to  him,  if  nothing  else  helped :  "  Look 
at  me,  Fetter  Nord !  It  is  your  want  of  judgment, 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     39 

your  vindictiveness,  that  is  the  cause  of  my  death. 
Think  of  it,  and  begin  another  life !  " 

He  had  come  filled  with  love  of  life  and  dreams  to 
celebrate  love's  festival,  and  she  lay  there  and 
thought  of  plunging  him  into  the  black  depths  of 
remorse. 

There  must  have  been  something  of  the  glory  of 
the  kingly  crown  shining  on  her,  which  made  her 
hesitate  so  that  she  decided  to  question  him  first. 

"But,  Fetter  Nord,  was  it  really  you  who  were 
here  with  those  three  terrible  men  ?  " 

He  flushed  and  looked  on  the  ground.  Then  he 
had  to  tell  her  the  whole  story  of  the  day  with  all 
its  shame.  In  the  first  place,  what  unmanliness  he 
had  shown  in  not  sooner  demanding  justice,  and  how 
he  had  only  gone  because  he  was  forced  to  it,  and 
then  how  he  had  been  beaten  and  whipped  instead  of 
beating  some  one  himself.  He  did  not  dare  to  look 
up  while  he  was  speaking;  he  did  expect  that  even 
those  gentle  eyes  would  judge  him  with  forbearance. 
He  felt  that  he  was  robbing  himself  of  all  the  glory 
with  which  she  must  have  surrounded  him  in  her 
dreams. 

"  But  Fetter  Nord,  what  would  have  happened  if 
you  had  met  Halfvorson  ? "  asked  Edith,  when  he 
had  finished. 

He  hung  his  head  even  lower.  "  I  saw  him  well 
enough,"  he  said.  "He  had  not  gone  away.  He 
was  working  in  his  garden  outside  the  gates.  The 
boy  in  the  shop  told  me  everything." 

"  Well,  why  did  you  not  avenge  yourself  ?  "  said 
Edith. 

He  was  spared  nothing.  — But  he  felt  the  inquir- 
ing glance  of  her  eyes  on  him  and  he  began  obedi- 


40  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

ently :  "  When  the  men  lay  down  to  sleep  on  a  slope, 
I  went  alone  to  find  Halfvorson,  for  I  wished  to 
have  him  to  myself.  He  was  working  there,  stak- 
ing his  peas.  It  must  have  rained  in  torrents  the 
day  before,  for  the  peas  had  been  broken  down  to 
the  ground;  some  of  the  leaves  were  whipped  to 
ribbons,  others  covered  with  earth.  It  was  like 
a  hospital,  and  Halfvorson  was  the  doctor.  He 
raised  them  up  so  gently,  brushed  away  the  earth 
and  helped  the  poor  little  things  to  cling  to  the 
twigs.  I  stood  and  looked  on.  He  did  not  hear 
me,  and  he  had  no  time  to  look  up.  I  tried  to 
retain  my  anger  by  force.  But  what  could  I  do  ?  I 
could  not  fly  at  him  while  he  was  busy  with  the 
peas.  My  time  will  come  afterwards,  I  thought. 

"  But  then  he  started  up,  struck  himself  on  the 
forehead  and  rushed  away  to  the  hotbed.  He  lifted 
the  glass  and  looked  in,  and  I  looked  too,  for  he 
seemed  to  be  in  the  depths  of  despair.  Yes,  it  was 
dreadful,  of  course.  He  had  forgotten  to  shade  it 
from  the  sun,  and  it  must  have  been  terribly  hot 
under  the  glass.  The  cucumbers  lay  there  half- 
dead  and  gasped  for  breath ;  some  of  the  leaves  were 
burnt,  and  others  were  drooping.  I  was  so  over- 
come, I  too,  that  I  never  thought  what  I  was  doing, 
and  Halfvorson  caught  sight  of  my  shadow.  '  Look 
here,  take  the  watering-pot  that  is  standing  in  the 
asparagus  bed  and  run  down  to  the  river  for  water, ' 
he  said,  without  looking  up.  I  suppose  he  thought 
it  was  the  gardener's  boy.  And  I  ran." 

"  Did  you,  Fetter  Nord  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  you  see,  the  cucumbers  ought  not  to  suffer 
on  account  of  our  enmity.  I  thought  myself  that  it 
showed  lack  of  character  and  so  on,  but  I  could  not 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     41 

help  it.  I  wanted  to  see  if  they  would  come  to  life. 
When  I  came  back,  he  had  lifted  the  glass  off  and 
still  stood  and  stared  despairingly.  I  thrust  the 
watering-pot  into  his  hand,  and  he  began  to  pour 
over  them.  Yes,  it  was  almost  visible  what  good  it 
did  in  the  hotbed.  I  thought  almost  that  they 
raised  themselves,  and  he  must  have  thought  so  too, 
for  he  began  to  laugh.  Then  I  ran  away." 

"  You  ran  away,  Fetter  Nord,  you  ran  away  ? " 

Edith  had  raised  herself  in  the  arm-chair. 

"I  could  not  strike  him,"  said  Fetter  Nord. 

Edith  felt  an  ever  stronger  impression  of  the  glory 
round  poor  Fetter  Nord's  head.  So  it  was  not 
necessary  to  plunge  him  into  the  depths  of  remorse 
with  the  heavy  burden  of  sin  around  his  neck. 
Was  he  such  a  man  ?  Such  a  tender-hearted,  sen- 
sitive man !  She  sank  back,  closed  her  eyes  and 
thought.  She  did  not  need  to  say  it  to  him.  She 
was  astonished  that  she  felt  such  a  relief  not  to  have 
to  cause  him  pain. 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  you  have  given  up  your  plans 
for  revenge,  Fetter  Nord,"  she  began  in  friendly 
tones.  "  It  was  about  that  that  I  wished  to  talk  to 
you.  Now  I  can  die  in  peace." 

He  drew  a  long  breath.     She  was  not  unfriendly. 

She  did  not  look  as  if  she  had  been  mistaken  in 
him.  She  must  love  him  very  much  when  she  could 
excuse  such  cowardice.  —  For  when  she  said  that  she 
had  sent  for  him  to  ask  him  to  give  up  his  thoughts 
of  revenge,  it  must  have  been  from  bashfulness  not 
to  have  to  acknowledge  the  real  reason  of  the  sum- 
mons. She  was  so  right  in  it.  He  who  was  the 
man  ought  to  say  the  first  word. 

"  How   can   they   let   you    die  ? "  he    burst    out. 


42  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

" Halfvorson  and  all  the  others,  how  can  they?  If 
I  were  here,  I  would  refuse  to  let  you  die.  I  would 
give  you  all  my  strength.  I  would  take  all  your 
suffering. " 

"I  have  no  pain,"  she  said,  smiling  at  such  bold 
promises. 

"  I  am  thinking  that  I  would  like  to  carry  you 
away  like  a  frozen  bird,  lay  you  under  my  vest  like 
a  young  squirrel.  Fancy  what  it  would  be  to  work 
if  something  so  warm  and  soft  was  waiting  for  one 
at  home !  But  if  you  were  well,  there  would  be  so 
many  —  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  weary  surprise,  prepared 
to  put  him  back  in  his  proper  place.  But  she  must 
have  seen  again  something  of  the  magic  crown  about 
the  boy's  head,  for  she  had  patience  with  him.  He 
meant  nothing.  He  had  to  talk  as  he  did.  He  was 
not  like  others. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  indifferently,  "there  are  not  so 
many,  Fetter  Nord.  There  has  hardly  been  any  one 
in  earnest." 

But  now  there  came  another  turn  to  his  advantage. 
In  her  suddenly  awoke  the  eager  hunger  of  a  sick 
person  for  compassion.  She  longed  for  the  tender- 
ness, the  pity  that  the  poor  workman  could  give  her. 
She  felt  the  need  of  being  near  that  deep,  disinter- 
ested sympathy.  The  sick  cannot  have  enough  of  it. 
She  wished  to  read  it  in  his  glance  and  his  whole 
being.  Words  meant  nothing  to  her. 

"I  like  to  see  you  here,"  she  said.  " Sit  here  for 
a  while,  and  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing  these 
six  years ! " 

While  he  talked,  she  lay  and  drew  in  the  inde- 
scribable something  which  passed  between  them. 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     43 

She  heard  and  yet  she  did  not  hear.  But  by  some 
strange  sympathy  she  felt  herself  strengthened  and 
vivified. 

Nevertheless  she  did  get  one  impression  from  his 
story.  It  took  her  into  the  workman's  quarter,  into 
a  new  world,  full  of  tumultuous  hopes  and  strength. 
How  they  longed  and  trusted !  How  they  hated  and 
suffered ! 

"  How  happy  the  oppressed  are,"  she  said. 

It  occurred  to  her,  with  a  longing  for  life,  that 
there  might  be  something  for  her  there,  she  who 
always  needed  oppression  and  compulsion  to  make 
life  worth  living. 

"If  I  were  well,"  she  said,  "perhaps  I  would  have 
gone  there  with  you.  I  should  enjoy  working  my 
way  up  with  some  one  I  liked." 

Fetter  Nord  started.  Here  was  the  confession 
that  he  had  been  waiting  for  the  whole  time.  "  Oh, 
can  you  not  live  ! "  he  prayed.  And  he  beamed  with 
happiness. " 

She  became  observant.  "That  is  love,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "  And  now  he  believes  that  I  am  also  in 
love.  What  madness,  that  Varmland  boy ! " 

She  wished  to  bring  him  back  to  reason,  but  there 
was  something  in  Fetter  Nord  on  that  day  of  victory 
that  restrained  her.  She  had  not  the  heart  to  spoil 
his  happy  mood.  She  felt  compassion  for  his  fool- 
ishness and  let  him  live  in  it.  "  It  does  not  matter, 
as  I  am  to  die  so  soon,"  she  said  to  herself. 

But  she  sent  him  away  soon  after,  and  when  he 
asked  if  he  might  not  come  again,  she  forbade  him 
absolutely.  "But,"  she  said,  "do  you  remember  our 
graveyard  up  on  the  hill,  Fetter  Nord.  You  can  come 
there  in  a  few  weeks  and  thank  death  for  that  day." 


44  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

As  Fetter  Nord  came  out  of  the  garden,  he  met 
Halfvorson.  He  was  walking  forward  and  back  in 
despair,  and  his  only  consolation  was  the  thought 
that  Edith  was  laying  the  burden  of  remorse  on  the 
wrong-doer.  To  see  him  overpowered  by  pangs  of 
conscience,  for  that  alone  had  he  sought  him  out. 
But  when  he  met  the  young  workman,  he  saw  that 
Edith  had  not  told  him  everything.  He  was  serious, 
but  at  the  same  time  he  certainly  was  madly  happy 

"Has  Edith  told  you  why  she  is  dying?"  said 
Halfvorson. 

"No,"  answered  Fetter  Nord. 

Halfvorson  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  as  if  to 
keep  him  from  escaping. 

"  She  is  dying  because  of  you,  because  of  your 
damned  pranks.  She  was  slightly  ill  before,  but  it 
was  nothing.  No  one  thought  that  she  would  diej 
but  then  you  came  with  those  three  wretched  tramps, 
and  they  frightened  her  while  you  were  in  my  shop. 
They  chased  her,  and  she  ran  away  from  them,  ran 
till  she  got  a  hemorrhage.  But  that  is  what  you 
wanted ;  you  wished  to  be  revenged  on  me  by  kill- 
ing her,  wished  to  leave  me  lonely  and  unhappy 
without  a  soul  near  me  who  cares  for  me.  All  my 
joy  you  wished  to  take  from  me,  all  my  joy." 

He  would  have  gone  on  forever,  overwhelmed 
Fetter  Nord  with  reproaches,  killed  him  with  curses ; 
but  the  latter  tore  himself  away  and  ran,  as  if  an 
earthquake  had  shaken  the  town  and  all  the  houses 
were  tumbling  down. 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     45 


IV 

"OEHIND  the  town  the  mountain  walls  rise  per- 
_D  pendicularly,  but  after  one  has  climbed  up 
them  by  steep  stone  steps  and  slippery  pine  paths, 
one  finds  that  the  mountain  spreads  out  into  a  wide, 
undulating  plateau.  And  there  lies  an  enchanted 
wood. 

Over  the  whole  stretch  of  the  mountain  stands  a 
pine  wood  without  pine-needles;  a  wood  which  dies 
in  the  spring  and  grows  green  in  the  autumn ;  a  life- 
less wood,  which  blossoms  with  the  joy  of  life  when 
other  trees  are  laying  aside  their  green  garments ;  a 
wood  that  grows  without  any  one  knowing  how,  that 
stands  green  in  winter  frosts  and  brown  in  summer 
dews. 

It  is  a  newly-planted  wood.  Young  firs  have 
been  forced  to  take  root  in  the  clefts  between  the 
granite  blocks.  Their  tough  roots  have  bored  down 
like  sharp  wedges  into  the  fissures  and  crevices.  It 
was  very  well  for  a  while;  the  young  trees  shot  up 
like  spires,  and  the  roots  bored  down  into  the  granite. 
But  at  last  they  could  go  no  further,  and  then  the 
wood  was  filled  with  an  ill-concealed  peevishness.  It 
wished  to  go  high,  but  also  deep.  After  the  way 
down  had  been  closed  to  it,  it  felt  that  life  was  not 
worth  living.  Every  spring  it  was  ready  to  throw 
off  the  burden  of  life  in  its  discouragement.  Dur- 
ing the  summer  when  Edith  was  dying,  the  young 
wood  was  quite  brown.  High  above  the  town  of 
flowers  stood  a  gloomy  row  of  dying  trees. 

But  up  on  the  mountain  it  is  not  all  gloom  and  the 


46  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

agony  of  death.  As  one  walks  between  the  brown 
trees,  in  such  distress  that  one  is  ready  to  die,  one 
catches  glimpses  of  green  trees.  The  perfume  of 
flowers  fills  the  air;  the  song  of  birds  exults  and 
calls.  Then  thoughts  rise  of  the  sleeping  forest 
and  of  the  paradise  of  the  fairy-tale,  encircled  by 
thorny  thickets.  And  when  one  comes  at  last  to 
the  green,  to  the  flower  fragrance,  to  the  song  of  the 
birds,  one  sees  that  it  is  the  hidden  graveyard  of 
the  little  town. 

The  home  of  the  dead  lies  in  an  earth-filled  hollow 
in  the  mountain  plateau.  And  there,  within  the 
grey  stone  walls,  the  knowledge  and  weariness  of 
life  end.  Lilacs  stand  at  the  entrance,  bending 
under  heavy  clusters.  Lindens  and  beeches  spread 
a  lofty  arch  of  luxuriant  growth  over  the  whole 
place.  Jasmines  and  roses  blossom  freely  in  that 
consecrated  earth.  Over  the  big  old  tombstones 
creep  vines  of  ivy  and  periwinkle. 

There  is  a  corner  where  the  pine-trees  grow  mast- 
high.  Does  it  not  seem  as  if  the  young  wood  out- 
side ought  to  be  ashamed  at  the  sight  of  them  ? 
And  there  are  hedges  there,  quite  grown  beyond 
their  keeper's  hands,  blooming  and  sending  forth 
shoots  without  thought  of  shears  or  knife. 

The  town  now  has  a  new  burial-place,  to  which 
the  dead  can  come  without  special  trouble.  It  was 
a  weary  way  for  them  to  be  carried  up  in  winter, 
when  the  steep  wood-paths  are  covered  with  ice,  and 
the  steps  slippery  and  covered  with  snow.  The 
coffin  creaked ;  the  bearers  panted ;  the  old  clergyman 
leaned  heavily  on  the  sexton  and  the  grave-digger. 
Now  no  one  has  to  be  buried  up  there  who  does  not 
ask  it. 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     47 

The  graves  are  not  beautiful.  There  are  few  who 
know  how  to  make  the  resting-place  of  the  dead 
attractive.  But  the  fresh  green  sheds  its  peace  and 
beauty  over  them  all.  It  is  strangely  solemn  to 
know  that  those  who  are  buried  are  glad  to  lie  there. 
The  living  who  go  up  after  a  day  hot  with  work,  go 
there  as  among  friends.  Those  who  sleep  have  also 
loved  the  lofty  trees  and  the  stillness. 

If  a  stranger  comes  up  there,  they  do  not  tell  him 
of  death  and  loss ;  they  sit  down  on  the  big  slabs 
of  stone,  on  the  broad  burgomaster  tombs,  and  tell 
him  about  Fetter  Nord,  the  Varmland  boy,  and  of 
his  love.  The  story  seems  fitting  to  be  told  up 
here,  where  death  has  lost  its  terrors.  The  conse- 
crated earth  seems  to  rejoice  at  having  also  been 
the  scene  of  awakened  happiness  and  new-born  life. 

For  it  happened  that  after  Fetter  Nord  ran  away 
from  Halfvorson,  he  sought  refuge  in  the  grave- 
yard. 

At  first  he  ran  towards  the  bridge  over  the  river 
and  turned  his  steps  towards  the  big  town.  But  on 
the  bridge  the  unfortunate  fugitive  stopped.  The 
kingly  crown  on  his  brow  was  quite  gone.  It  had 
disappeared  as  if  it  had  been  spun  of  sunbeams. 
He  was  deeply  bent  with  sorrow;  his  whole  body 
shook;  his  heart  throbbed;  his  brain  burned  like 
fire. 

Then  he  thought  he  saw  the  Spirit  of  Fasting 
coming  towards  him  for  the  third  time.  She  was 
much  more  friendly,  much  more  compassionate  than 
before;  but  she  seemed  to  him  only  so  much  the 
more  terrible. 

"Alas,  unhappy  one,"  she  said,  "surely  this  must 
be  the  last  of  your  pranks!  You  have  wished  to 


48  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

celebrate  the  festival  of  love  during  that  time  of 
fasting  which  is  called  life;  but  you  see  what  hap- 
pens to  you.  Come  now  and  be  faithful  to  me;  you 
have  tried  everything  and  have  only  me  to  whom  to 
turn." 

He  waved  his  arm  to  keep  her  off.  "  I  know  what 
you  wish  of  me.  You  wish  to  lead  me  back  to  work 
and  renunciation,  but  I  cannot.  Not  now,  not 
now!" 

The  pallid  Spirit  of  Fasting  smiled  ever  more 
mildly.  "  You  are  innocent,  Fetter  Nord.  Do  not 
grieve  so  over  what  you  have  not  caused !  Was  not 
Edith  kind  to  you?  Did  you  not  see  that  she  had 
forgiven  you  ?  Come  with  me  to  your  work  !  Live, 
as  you  have  lived ! " 

The  boy  cried  more  vehemently.  "  Is  it  any  better 
for  me,  do  you  think,  that  I  have  killed  just  her 
who  has  been  kind  to  me,  her,  who  cares  for  me? 
Had  it  not  been  better  if  I  had  murdered  some  one 
whom  I  wished  to  murder.  I  must  make  amends. 
I  must  save  her  life.  I  cannot  think  of  work  now." 

"Oh,  you  madman,"  said  the  Spirit  of  Fasting, 
"  the  festival  of  reparation  which  you  wish  to  cele- 
brate is  the  greatest  audacity  of  all." 

Then  Fetter  Nord  rebelled  absolutely  against  his 
friend  of  many  years.  He  scoffed  at  her.  "  What 
have  you  made  me  believe?"  he  said.  "That  you 
were  a  tiresome  and  peevish  old  woman  with  arms 
full  of  small,  harmless  twigs.  You  are  a  sorceress 
of  life.  You  are  a  monster.  You  are  beautiful, 
and  you  are  terrible.  You  yourself  know  no  bounds 
nor  limits;  why  should  I  know  them?  How  can  you 
preach  fasting,  you,  who  wish  to  deluge  me  with 
such  an  overmeasure  of  sorrow?  What  are  the  fes- 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     49 

tivals  I  have  celebrated  compared  to  those  you  are 
continually  preparing  for  me!  Begone  with  your 
pallid  moderation !  Now  I  wish  to  be  as  mad  as 
yourself." 

Not  one  step  could  he  take  towards  the  big  town. 
Neither  could  he  turn  directly  round  and  again  go 
the  length  of  the  one  street  in  the  village;  he  took 
the  path  up  the  mountain,  climbed  to  the  enchanted 
pine-wood,  and  wandered  about  among  the  stiff, 
prickly  young  trees,  until  a  friendly  path  led  him  to 
the  graveyard.  There  he  found  a  hiding-place  in  a 
corner  where  the  pines  grew  high  as  masts,  and  there 
he  threw  himself  weary  unto  death  on  the  ground. 

He  almost  lost  consciousness.  He  did  not  know 
if  time  passed  or  if  everything  stood  still.  But 
after  a  while  steps  were  heard,  and  he  woke  to  a 
feeble  consciousness.  He  seemed  to  have  been  far, 
far  away.  He  saw  a  funeral  procession  draw  near, 
and  instantly  a  confused  thought  rose  in  him.  How 
long  had  he  lain  there  ?  Was  Edith  dead  already  ? 
Was  she  looking  for  him  here?  Was  the  corpse  in 
the  coffin  hunting  for  its  murderer?  He  shook  and 
sweated.  He  lay  well  hidden  in  the  dark  pine 
thicket;  but  he  trembled  for  what  might  happen  if 
the  corpse  found  him.  He  bent  aside  the  branches 
and  looked  out.  A  hunted  deserter  could  not  have 
spied  more  wildly  after  his  pursuers. 

The  funeral  was  that  of  a  poor  man.  The  attend- 
ance was  small.  The  coffin  was  lowered  without 
wreaths  into  the  grave.  There  was  no  sign  of 
tears  on  any  of  the  faces.  Fetter  Nord  had  still 
enough  sense  to  see  that  this  could  not  be  Edith 
Halfvorson's  funeral  train. 

But  if  this  was  not  she,  who  knows  if  it  was  not  a 

4 


50  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

greeting  from  her.  Fetter  Nord  felt  that  he  had  no 
right  to  escape.  She  had  said  that  he  was  to  go  up 
to  the  graveyard.  She  must  have  meant  that  he  was 
to  wait  for  her  there,  so  that  she  could  find  him  to 
give  him  his  punishment.  The  funeral  was  a  greet- 
ing, a  token.  She  wished  him  to  wait  for  her  there. 

To  his  sick  brain  the  low  churchyard  wall  rose  as 
high  as  a  rampart.  He  stared  despairingly  at  the 
frail  trellis-gate;  it  was  like  the  most  solid  door  of 
oak.  He  was  imprisoned.  He  could  never  get 
away,  until  she  herself  came  up  and  brought  him 
his  punishment. 

What  she  was  going  to  do  with  him  he  did  not 
know.  Only  one  thing  was  distinct  and  clear;  that 
he  must  wait  here  until  she  came  for  him.  Perhaps 
she  would  take  him  with  her  into  the  grave;  perhaps 
she  would  command  him  to  throw  himself  from  the 
mountain.  He  could  not  know  —  he  must  wait  for 
a  while  yet. 

Reason  fought  a  despairing  struggle:  "You  are 
innocent,  Fetter  Nord.  Do  not  grieve  over  what 
you  have  not  caused!  She  has  not  sent  you  any 
messages.  Go  down  to  your  work !  Lift  your  foot 
and  you  are  over  the  wall ;  push  with  one  finger  and 
the  gate  is  open ! " 

No,  he  could  not.  Most  of  the  time  he  was  in  a 
stupor,  a  trance.  His  thoughts  were  indistinct,  as 
when  on  the  point  of  falling  asleep.  He  only  knew 
one  thing,  that  he  must  stay  where  he  was. 

The  news  came  to  her  lying  and  fading  in  emu- 
lation with  the  rootless  birches.  "  Fetter  Nord,  with 
whom  you  played  one  summer  day,  is  in  the  grave- 
yard waiting  for  you.  Fetter  Nord,  whom  your 
uncle  has  frightened  out  of  his  senses,  cannot  leave 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     5 1 

the  graveyard  until  your  flower-decked  coffin  comes 
to  fetch  him." 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes  as  if  to  look  at  the  world 
once  more.  She  sent  a  message  to  Fetter  Nord. 
She  was  angry  at  his  mad  pranks.  Why  could  she 
not  die  in  peace?  She  had  never  wished  that  he 
should  have  any  pangs  of  conscience  for  her  sake. 

The  bearer  of  the  message  came  back  without 
Fetter  Nord.  He  could  not  come.  The  wall  was 
too  high  and  the  gate  too  strong.  There  was  only 
one  who  could  free  him. 

During  those  days  they  thought  of  nothing  else  in 
the  little  town.  "He  is  there;  he  is  there  still," 
they  told  one  another  every  day.  "Is  he  mad?" 
they  asked  most  often,  and  some  who  had  talked 
with  him  answered  that  he  certainly  would  be  when 
"  she  "  came.  But  they  were  exceedingly  proud  of 
that  martyr  to  love  who  gave  a  glory  to  the  town. 
The  poor  took  him  food.  The  rich  stole  up  on  the 
mountain  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him. 

But  Edith,  who  could  not  move,  who  lay  helpless 
and  dying,  she  who  had  so  much  time  to  think,  with 
what  was  she  occupying  herself?  What  thoughts 
revolved  in  her  brain  day  and  night?  Oh,  Fetter 
Nord,  Fetter  Nord !  Must  she  always  see  before 
her  the  man  who  loved  her,  who  was  losing  his 
mind  for  her  sake,  who  really,  actually  was  in  the 
graveyard  waiting  for  her  coffin. 

See,  that  was  something  for  the  steel-spring  in 
her  nature.  That  was  something  for  her  imagina- 
tion, something  for  her  benumbed  senses.  To  think 
what  he  meant  to  do  when  she  should  come!  To 
imagine  what  he  would  do  if  she  should  not  come 
there  as  a  corpse ! 


52  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

They  talked  of  it  in  the  whole  town,  talked  of  it 
and  nothing  else.  As  the  cities  of  ancient  times 
had  loved  their  martyrs,  the  little  village  loved  the 
unhappy  Fetter  Nord;  but  no  one  liked  to  go  into 
the  graveyard  and  talk  to  him.  He  looked  wilder 
each  day.  The  obscurity  of  madness  sank  ever 
closer  about  him.  "  Why  does  she  not  try  to  get 
well?"  they  said  of  Edith.  "It  is  unjust  of  her  to 
die." 

Edith  was  almost  angry.  She  who  was  so  tired  of 
life,  must  she  be  compelled  to  take  up  the  heavy 
burden  again?  But  nevertheless  she  began  an 
honest  effort.  She  felt  what  a  work  of  repairing 
and  mending  was  going  on  in  her  body  with  seething 
force  during  these  weeks.  And  no  material  was 
spared.  She  consumed  incredible  quantities  of  those 
things  which  give  strength  and  life,  whatever  they 
may  be:  malt  extract  or  codliver  oil,  fresh  air  or 
sunshine,  dreams  or  love. 

And  what  glorious  days  they  were,  long,  warm, 
and  sunny! 

At  last  she  got  the  doctor's  permission  to  be 
carried  up  there.  The  whole  town  was  in  alarm 
when  she  undertook  the  journey.  Would  she  come 
down  with  a  madman  ?  Could  the  misery  of  those 
weeks  be  blotted  out  of  his  brain?  Would  the 
exertions  she  had  made  to  begin  life  again  be  profit- 
less? And  if  it  were  so,  how  would  it  go  with 
her? 

As  she  passed  by,  pale  with  excitement,  but  still 
full  of  hope,  there  was  cause  enough  for  anxiety. 
No  one  concealed  from  themselves  that  Fetter  Nord 
had  taken  quite  too  large  a  place  in  her  imagina- 
tion. She  was  the  most  eager  of  all  in  the  worship 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND  FETTER  NORD     53 

of  that  strange  saint.  All  restraints  had  fallen  from 
her  when  she  had  heard  what  he  suffered  for  her 
sake.  But  how  would  the  sight  of  him  affect  her 
enthusiasm  ?  There  is  nothing  romantic  in  a  mad- 
man. 

When  she  had  been  carried  up  to  the  gate  of  the 
graveyard,  she  left  her  bearers  and  walked  alone  up 
the  broad  middle  path.  Her  gaze  wandered  round 
the  flowering  spot,  but  she  saw  no  one. 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  faint  rustle  in  a  clump  of 
fir-trees,  and  she  saw  a  wild,  distorted  face  staring 
from  it.  Never  had  she  seen  terror  so  plainly 
stamped  on  a  face.  She  was  frightened  herself  at 
the  sight  of  it,  mortally  frightened.  She  could 
hardly  restrain  herself  from  running  away. 

Then  a  great,  holy  feeling  welled  up  in  her. 
There  was  no  longer  any  thought  of  love  or  enthu- 
siasm, but  only  grief  that  a  fellow-being,  one  of  the 
unhappy  ones  who  passed  through  the  vale  of  tears 
with  her,  should  be  destroyed. 

The  girl  remained.  She  did  not  give  way  a  single 
step;  she  let  him  slowly  accustom  himself  to  the 
sight  of  her.  But  she  put  all  the  strength  she  pos- 
sessed in  her  gaze.  She  drew  the  man  to  her  with 
the  whole  force  of  the  will  that  had  conquered  the 
illness  in  herself. 

He  came  forward  out  of  his  corner,  pale,  wild  and 
unkempt.  He  advanced  towards  her,  but  the  terror 
never  left  his  face.  He  looked  as  if  he  were  fasci- 
nated by  a  wild  beast,  which  came  to  tear  him  to 
pieces.  When  he  was  quite  close  to  her,  she  put 
both  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  looked  smiling 
into  his  face. 

"  Come,  Fetter  Nord,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 


54  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

You  must  go  from  here!  What  do  you  mean  by 
staying  so  long  up  here  in  the  graveyard,  Fetter 
Nord?" 

He  trembled  and  sank  down.  But  she  felt  that 
she  subdued  him  with  her  eyes.  Her  words,  on  the 
other  hand,  seemed  to  have  absolutely  no  meaning  to 
him. 

She  changed  her  tone  a  little.  "  Listen  to  what  I 
say,  Fetter  Nord.  I  am  not  dead.  I  am  not  going 
to  die.  I  have  got  well  in  order  to  come  up  here 
and  save  you." 

He  still  stood  in  the  same  dull  terror.  Again 
there  came  a  change  in  her  voice.  "  You  have  not 
caused  my  death,"  she  said  more  tenderly,  "you 
have  given  me  life." 

She  repeated  it  again  and  again.  And  her  voice 
at  last  was  trembling  with  emotion,  thick  with 
weeping.  But  he  did  not  understand  anything  of 
what  she  said. 

"  Fetter  Nord,  I  love  you  so  much,  so  much ! "  she 
burst  out. 

He  was  just  as  unmoved. 

She  knew  nothing  more  to  try  with  him.  She 
would  have  to  take  him  down  with  her  to  the  town 
and  let  time  and  care  help. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  what  the  dreams  she  had 
taken  up  there  with  her  were  and  what  she  had 
expected  from  this  meeting  with  the  man  who  loved 
her.  Now,  when  she  was  to  give  it  all  up  and  treat 
him  as  a  madman  only,  she  felt  such  pain,  as  if  she 
was  about  to  lose  the  dearest  thing  life  had  given 
her.  And  in  that  bitterness  of  loss  she  drew  him  to 
her  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

It  was  meant  as  a  farewell  to  both  happiness  and 


SPIRIT  OF  FASTING  AND   FETTER  NORD     55 

life.  She  felt  her  strength  fail  her.  A  mortal 
weakness  came  over  her. 

But  then  she  thought  she  saw  a  feeble  sign  of  life 
in  him.  He  was  not  quite  so  limp  and  dull.  His 
features  were  twitching.  He  trembled  more  and 
more  violently.  She  watched  with  ever-growing 
alarm.  He  was  waking,  but  to  what?  At  last  he 
began  to  weep. 

She  led  him  away  to  a  tomb.  She  sat  down  on  it, 
pulled  him  down  in  front  of  her  and  laid  his  head 
on  her  lap.  She  sat  and  caressed  him,  while  he 
wept. 

He  was  like  some  one  waking  from  a  nightmare. 
"  Why  am  I  weeping  ? "  he  asked  himself.  "  Oh,  I 
know ;  I  had  such  a  terrible  dream.  But  it  is  not 
true.  She  is  alive.  I  have  not  killed  her.  So 
foolish  to  weep  for  a  dream." 

Gradually  everything  grew  clear  to  him;  but  his 
tears  continued  to  flow.  She  sat  and  caressed  him, 
but  he  wept  still  for  a  long  time. 

"I  feel  such  a  need  of  weeping,"  he  said. 

Then  he  looked  up  and  smiled.  "Is  it  Easter 
now  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  now  ? " 

"It  can- be  called  Easter,  when  the  dead  rise 
again,"  he  continued.  Thereupon,  as  if  they  had 
been  intimate  many  years,  he  began  to  tell  her 
about  the  Spirit  of  Fasting  and  of  his  revolt  against 
her  rule. 

"It  is  Easter  now,  and  the  end  of  her  reign,"  she 
said. 

But  when  he  realized  that  Edith  was  sitting  there 
and  caressing  him,  he  had  to  weep  again.  He  needed 
so  much  to  weep.  All  the  distrust  of  life  which 


56  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

misfortunes  had  brought  to  the  little  Varmland  boy 
needed  tears  to  wash  it  away.  Distrust  that  love 
and  joy,  beauty  and  strength  blossomed  on  the  earth, 
distrust  in  himself,  all  must  go,  all  did  go,  for  it 
was  Easter;  the  dead  lived  and  the  Spirit  of  Fasting 
would  never  again  come  into  power. 


THE    LEGEND    OF    THE    BIRD'S 

NEST 


THE   LEGEND     OF   THE   BIRD'S   NEST 

HATTO  the  hermit  stood  in  the  wilderness  and 
prayed  to  God.  A  storm  was  raging,  and 
his  long  beard  and  matted  hair  waved  about  him 
like  weather-beaten  tufts  of  grass  on  the  summit  of 
an  old  ruin.  But  he  did  not  push  his  hair  out  of 
his  eyes,  nor  did  he  tuck  his  beard  into  his  belt,  for 
his  arms  were  uplifted  in  prayer.  Ever  since  sun- 
rise he  had  raised  his  gnarled,  hairy  arms  towards 
heaven,  as  untiringly  as  a  tree  stretches  up  its 
branches,  and  he  meant  to  remain  standing  so  till 
night.  He  had  a  great  boon  to  pray  for. 

He  was  a  man  who  had  suffered  much  of  the 
world's  anger.  He  had  himself  persecuted  and 
tortured,  and  persecutions  and  torture  from  others 
had  fallen  to  his  share,  more  than  his  heart  could 
bear.  So  he  went  out  on  the  great  heath,  dug  him- 
self a  hole  in  the  river  bank  and  became  a  holy 
man,  whose  prayers  were  heard  at  God's  throne. 

Hatto  the  hermit  stood  there  on  the  river  bank 
by  his  hole  and  prayed  the  great  prayer  of  his  life. 
He  prayed  God  that  He  should  appoint  the  day  of 
doom  for  this  wicked  world.  He  called  on  the 
trumpet-blowing  angels,  who  were  to  proclaim  the 
end  of  the  reign  of  sin.  He  cried  out  to  the  waves 
of  the  sea  of  blood,  which  were  to  drown  the  un- 
righteous. He  called  on  the  pestilence,  which 
should  fill  the  churchyards  with  heaps  of  dead. 


60  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Round  about  stretched  a  desert  plain.  But  a 
little  higher  up  on  the  river  bank  stood  an  old  wil- 
low with  a  short  trunk,  which  swelled  out  at  the 
top  in  a  great  knob  like  a  head,  from  which  new, 
light-green  shoots  grew  out.  Every  autumn  it  was 
robbed  of  these  strong,  young  branches  by  the 
inhabitants  of  that  fuel-less  heath.  Every  spring 
the  tree  put  forth  new,  soft  shoots,  and  in  stormy 
weather  these  waved  and  fluttered  about  it,  just  as 
hair  and  beard  fluttered  about  Hatto  the  hermit. 

A  pair  of  wagtails,  which  used  to  make  their  nest 
in  the  top  of  the  willow's  trunk  among  the  sprouting 
branches,  had  intended  to  begin  their  building  that 
very  day.  But  among  the  whipping  shoots  the  birds 
found  no  quiet.  They  came  flying  with  straws  and 
root  fibres  and  dried  sedges,  but  they  had  to  turn 
back  with  their  errand  unaccomplished.  Just  then 
they  noticed  old  Hatto,  who  called  upon  God  to 
make  the  storm  seven  times  more  violent,  so  that 
the  nests  of  the  little  birds  might  be  swept  away 
and  the  eagle's  eyrie  destroyed. 

Of  course  no  one  now  living  can  conceive  how 
mossy  and  dried-up  and  gnarled  and  black  and 
unlike  a  human  being  such  an  old  plain-dweller 
could  be.  The  skin  was  so  drawn  over  brow  and 
cheeks,  that  he  looked  almost  like  a  death's-head, 
and  one  saw  only  by  a  faint  gleam  in  the  hollows  of 
the  eye-sockets  that  he  was  alive.  And  the  dried- 
up  muscles  of  the  body  gave  it  no  roundness,  and 
the  upstretched,  naked  arms  consisted  only  of  shape- 
less bones,  covered  with  shrivelled,  hardened,  bark- 
like  skin.  He  wore  an  old,  close-fitting,  black  robe. 
He  was  tanned  by  the  sun  and  black  with  dirt.  His 
hair  and  beard  alone  were  light,  bleached  by  the 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BIR&S  NEST        6 1 

rain  and  sun,  until  they  had  become  the  same  green- 
gray  color  as  the  under  side  of  the  willow  leaves. 

The  birds,  flying  about,  looking  for  a  place  to 
build,  took  Hatto  the  hermit  for  another  old  wil- 
low-tree, checked  in  its  struggle  towards  the  sky  by 
axe  and  saw  like  the  first  one.  They  circled  about 
him  many  times,  flew  away  and  came  again,  took 
their  landmarks,  considered  his  position  in  regard 
to  birds  of  prey  and  winds,  found  him  rather  unsat- 
isfactory, but  nevertheless  decided  in  his  favor, 
because  he  stood  so  near  to  the  river  and  to  the 
tufts  of  sedge,  their  larder  and  storehouse.  One  of 
them  shot  swift  as  an  arrow  down  into  his  up- 
stretched  hand  and  laid  his  root  fibre  there. 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  storm,  so  that  the  root- 
fibre  was  not  torn  instantly  away  from  the  hand ;  but 
in  the  hermit's  prayers  there  was  no  pause:  "May 
the  Lord  come  soon  to  destroy  this  world  of  corrup- 
tion, so  that  man  may  not  have  time  to  heap  more 
sin  upon  himself!  May  he  save  the  unborn  from 
life!  For  the  living  there  is  no  salvation." 

Then  the  storm  began  again,  and  the  little  root- 
fibre  fluttered  away  out  of  the  hermit's  big  gnarled 
hand.  But  the  birds  came  again  and  tried  to  wedge 
the  foundation  of  the  new  home  in  between  the 
fingers.  Suddenly  a  shapeless  and  dirty  thumb  laid 
itself  on  the  straws  and  held  them  fast,  and  four 
fingers  arched  themselves  so  that  there  was  a  quiet 
niche  to  build  in.  The  hermit  continued  his 
prayers. 

"  Oh  Lord,  where  are  the  clouds  of  fire  which  laid 
Sodom  waste?  When  wilt  Thou  let  loose  the  floods 
which  lifted  the  ark  to  Ararat's  top?  Are  not  the 
cups  of  Thy  patience  emptied  and  the  vials  of  Thy 


62  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

grace  exhausted?  Oh  Lord,  when  wilt  Thou  rend 
the  heavens  and  come  ?  " 

And  feverish  visions  of  the  Day  of  Doom  appeared 
to  Hatto  the  hermit.  The  ground  trembled,  the 
heavens  glowed.  Across  the  flaming  sky  he  saw 
black  clouds  of  flying  birds,  a  horde  of  panic- 
stricken  beasts  rushed,  roaring  and  bellowing,  past 
him.  But  while  his  soul  was  occupied  with  these 
fiery  visions,  his  eyes  began  to  follow  the  flight  of 
the  little  birds,  as  they  flashed  to  and  fro  and  with 
a  cheery  peep  of  satisfaction  wove  a  new  straw  into 
the  nest. 

The  old  man  had  no  thought  of  moving.  He  had 
made  a  vow  to  pray  without  moving  with  uplifted 
hands  all  day  in  order  to  force  the  Lord  to  grant  his 
request.  The  more  exhausted  his  body  became,  the 
more  vivid  visions  filled  his  brain.  He  heard  the 
walls  of  cities  fall  and  the  houses  crack.  Shrieking, 
terrified  crowds  rushed  by  him,  pursued  by  the 
angels  of  vengeance  and  destruction,  mighty  forms 
with  stern,  beautiful  faces,  wearing  silver  coats  of 
mail,  riding  black  horses  and  swinging  scourges, 
woven  of  white  lightning. 

The  little  wagtails  built  and  shaped  busily  all 
day,  and  the  work  progressed  rapidly.  On  the  tufted 
heath  with  its  stiff  sedges  and  by  the  river  with  its 
reeds  and  rushes,  there  was  no  lack  of  building 
material.  They  had  no  time  for  noon  siesta  nor  for 
evening  rest.  Glowing  with  eagerness  and  delight, 
they  flew  to  and  fro,  and  before  night  came  they  had 
almost  reached  the  roof. 

But  before  night  came,  the  hermit  had  begun  to 
watch  them  more  and  more.  He  followed  them  on 
their  journeys;  he  scolded  them  when  they  built 


THE  LEGEND   OF  THE  BIRD'S  NEST       63 

foolishly;  he  was  furious  when  the  wind  disturbed 
their  work;  and  least  of  all  could  he  endure  that 
they  should  take  any  rest 

Then  the  sun  set,  and  the  birds  went  to  their  old 
sleeping-place  in  among  the  rushes. 

Let  him  who  crosses  the  heath  at  night  bend  down 
until  his  face  comes  on  a  level  with  the  tufts  of 
grass,  and  he  will  see  a  strange  spectacle  outline 
itself  against  the  western  sky.  Owls  with  great, 
round  wings  skim  over  the  ground,  invisible  to  any 
one  standing  upright.  Snakes  glide  about  there, 
lithe,  quick,  with  narrow  heads  uplifted  on  swan- 
like  necks.  Great  turtles  crawl  slowly  forward, 
hares  and  water-rats  flee  before  preying  beasts,  and 
a  fox  bounds  after  a  bat,  which  is  chasing  mosquitos 
by  the  river.  It  seems  as  if  every  tuft  has  come  to 
life.  But  through  it  all  the  little  birds  sleep  on  the 
waving  rushes,  secure  from  all  harm  in  that  resting- 
place  which  no  enemy  can  approach,  without  the 
water  splashing  or  the  reeds  shaking  and  waking 
them. 

When  the  morning  came,  the  wagtails  believed 
at  first  that  the  events  of  the  day  before  had  been  a 
beautiful  dream. 

They  had  taken  their  landmarks  and  flew  straight 
to  their  nest,  but  it  was  gone.  They  flew  searching 
over  the  heath  and  rose  up  into  the  air  to  spy  about. 
There  was  not  a  trace  of  nest  or  tree.  At  last  they 
lighted  on  a  couple  of  stones  by  the  river  bank  and 
considered.  They  wagged  their  long  tails  and 
cocked  their  heads  on  one  side.  Where  had  the 
tree  and  nest  gone? 

But  hardly  had  the  sun  risen  a  handsbreadth  over 
the  belt  of  trees  on  the  other  bank,  before  their  tree 


64  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

came  walking  and  placed  itself  on  the  same  spot 
where  it  had  been  the  day  before.  It  was  just  as 
black  and  gnarled  as  ever  and  bore  their  nest  on  the 
top  of  something,  which  must  be  a  dry,  upright 
branch. 

Then  the  wagtails  began  to  build  again,  without 
troubling  themselves  any  more  about  nature's  many 
wonders. 

Hatto  the  hermit,  who  drove  the  little  children 
away  from  his  hole  telling  them  that  it  had  been 
best  for  them  if  they  had  never  been  born,  he  who 
rushed  out  into  the  mud  to  hurl  curses  after  the 
joyous  young  people  who  rowed  up  the  stream  in 
pleasure-boats,  he  from  whose  angry  eyes  the  shep- 
herds on  the  heath  guarded  their  flocks,  did  not 
return  to  his  place  by  the  river  for  the  sake  of  the 
little  birds.  He  knew  that  not  only  has  every 
letter  in  the  holy  books  its  hidden,  mysterious 
meaning,  but  so  also  has  everything  which  God 
allows  to  take  place  in  nature.  He  had  thought  out 
the  meaning  of  the  wagtails  building  in  his  hand. 
God  wished  him  to  remain  standing  with  uplifted 
arms  until  the  birds  had  raised  their  brood;  and  if  he 
should  have  the  power  to  do  that,  he  would  be  heard. 

But  during  that  day  he  did  not  see  so  many  visions 
of  the  Day  of  Doom.  Instead,  he  watched  the  birds 
more  and  more  eagerly.  He  saw  the  nest  soon 
finished.  The  little  builders  fluttered  about  it  and 
inspected  it.  They  went  after  a  few  bits  of  lichen 
from  the  real  willow-tree  and  fastened  them  on  the 
outside,  to  fill  the  place  of  plaster  and  paint.  They 
brought  the  finest  cotton-grass,  and  the  female  wag- 
tail took  feathers  from  her  own  breast  and  lined  the 
nest. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BIRD'S  NEST        65 

The  peasants,  who  feared  the  baleful  power  that 
the  hermit's  prayers  might  have  at  the  throne  of 
God,  used  to  bring  him  bread  and  milk  to  mitigate 
his  wrath.  They  came  now  too  and  found  him 
standing  motionless,  with  the  bird's  nest  in  his 
hand.  "  See  how  the  holy  man  loves  the  little 
creatures,"  they  said,  and  were  no  longer  afraid  of 
him,  but  lifted  the  bowl  of  milk  to  his  mouth  and 
put  the  bread  between  his  lips.  When  he  had  eaten 
and  drunk,  he  drove  away  the  people  with  angry 
words,  but  they  only  smiled  at  his  curses. 

His  body  had  long  since  become  the  slave  of  his 
will.  By  hunger  and  blows,  by  praying  all  day,  by 
waking  a  week  at  a  time,  he  had  taught  it  obedience. 
Now  the  steel-like  muscles  held  his  arms  uplifted 
for  days  and  weeks,  and  when  the  female  wagtail 
began  to  sit  on  her  eggs  and  never  left  the  nest,  he 
did  not  return  to  his  hole  even  at  night.  He  learned 
to  sleep  sitting,  with  upstretched  arms.  Among  the 
dwellers  in  the  wilderness  there  are  many  who  have 
done  greater  things. 

He  grew  accustomed  to  the  two  little,  motionless 
bird-eyes  which  stared  down  at  him  over  the  edge  of 
the  nest.  He  watched  for  hail  and  rain,  and  shel- 
tered the  nest  as  well  as  he  could. 

At  last  one  day  the  female  is  freed  from  her  duties. 
Both  the  birds  sit  on  the  edge  of  the  nest,  wag  their 
tails  and  consult  and  look  delighted,  although  the 
whole  nest  seems  to  be  full  of  an  anxious  peeping. 
After  a  while  they  set  out  on  the  wildest  hunt  for 
midges. 

Midge  after  midge  is  caught  and  brought  to  what- 
ever it  is  that  is  peeping  up  there  in  his  hand.  And 
when  the  food  comes,  the  peeping  is  at  its  very 

5 


66  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

loudest.     The  holy  man  is  disturbed  in  his  prayers 
by  that  peeping. 

And  gently,  gently  he  bends  his  arm,  which  has 
almost  lost  the  power  of  moving,  and  his  little  fiery 
eyes  stare  down  into  the  nest. 

Never  had  he  seen  anything  so  helplessly  ugly 
and  miserable:  small,  naked  bodies,  with  a  little 
thin  down,  no  eyes,  no  power  of  flight,  nothing 
really  but  six  big,  gaping  mouths. 

It  seemed  very  strange  to  him,  but  he  liked  them 
just  as  they  were.  Their  father  and  mother  he  had 
never  spared  in  the  general  destruction,  but  when 
hereafter  he  called  to  God  to  ask  of  Him  the  salva- 
tion of  the  world  through  its  annihilation,  he  made 
a  silent  exception  of  those  six  helpless  ones. 

When  the  peasant  women  now  brought  him  food, 
he  no  longer  thanked  them  by  wishing  their  destruc- 
tion. Since  he  was  necessary  to  the  little  creatures 
up  there,  he  was  glad  that  they  did  not  let  him 
starve  to  death. 

Soon  six  round  heads  were  to  be  seen  the  whole 
day  long  stretching  over  the  edge  of  the  nest.  Old 
Hatto's  arm  sank  more  and  more  often  to  the  level 
of  his  eyes.  He  saw  the  feathers  push  out  through 
the  red  skin,  the  eyes  open,  the  bodies  round  out. 
Happy  inheritors  of  the  beauty  nature  has  given  to 
flying  creatures,  they  developed  quickly  in  their 
loveliness. 

And  during  all  this  time  prayers  for  the  great 
destruction  rose  more  and  more  hesitatingly  to  old 
Hatto's  lips.  He  thought  that  he  had  God's  promise, 
that  it  should  come  when  the  little  birds  were  fledged. 
Now  he  seemed  to  be  searching  for  a  loop-hole  for 
God  the  Father.  For  these  six  little  creatures, 


THE  LEGEND   OF  THE  BIRD'S  NEST         67 

whom  he  had  sheltered  and  cherished,  he  could  not 
sacrifice. 

It  was  another  matter  before,  when  he  had  not 
had  anything  that  was  his  own.  The  love  for  the 
small  and  weak,  which  it  has  been  every  little 
child's  mission  to  teach  big,  dangerous  people,  came 
over  him  and  made  him  doubtful. 

He  sometimes  wanted  to  hurl  the  whole  nest  into 
the  river,  for  he  thought  that  they  who  die  without 
sorrow  or  sin  are  the  happy  ones.  Should  he  not 
save  them  from  beasts  of  prey  and  cold,  from 
hunger,  and  from  life's  manifold  visitations?  But 
just  as  he  thought  this,  a  sparrow-hawk  came  swoop- 
ing down  on  the  nest.  Then  Hatto  seized  the 
marauder  with  his  left  hand,  swung  him  about  his 
head  and  hurled  him  with  the  strength  of  wrath  out 
into  the  stream. 

The  day  came  at  last  when  the  little  birds  were 
ready  to  fly.  One  of  the  wagtails  was  working 
inside  the  nest  to  push  the  young  ones  out  to  the 
edge,  while  the  other  flew  about,  showing  them  how 
easy  it  was,  if  they  only  dared  to  try.  And  when 
the  young  ones  were  obstinate  and  afraid,  both  the 
parents  flew  about,  showing  them  all  their  most 
beautiful  feats  of  flight.  Beating  with  their  wings, 
they  flew  in  swooping  curves,  or  rose  right  up  like 
larks  or  hung  motionless  in  the  air  with  vibrating 
wings. 

But  as  the  young  ones  still  persist  in  their  obsti- 
nacy, Hatto  the  hermit  cannot  keep  from  mixing 
himself  up  in  the  matter.  He  gives  them  a  cautious 
shove  with  his  finger  and  then  it  is  done.  Out  they 
go,  fluttering  and  uncertain,  beating  the  air  like 
bats,  sink,  but  rise  again,  grasp  what  the  art  is  and 


68  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

make  use  of  it  to  reach  the  nest  again  as  quickly  as 
possible.  Proud  and  rejoicing,  the  parents  come  to 
them  again  and  old  Hatto  smiles. 

It  was  he  who  gave  the  final  touch  after  all. 

He  now  considered  seriously  if  there  could  not  be 
any  way  out  of  it  for  our  Lord. 

Perhaps,  when  all  was  said,  God  the  Father  held 
this  earth  in  His  right  hand  like  a  big  bird's  nest, 
and  perhaps  He  had  come  to  cherish  love  for  all 
those  who  build  and  dwell  there,  for  all  earth's 
defenceless  children.  Perhaps  He  felt  pity  for  those 
whom  He  had  promised  to  destroy,  just  as  the 
hermit  felt  pity  for  the  little  birds. 

Of  course  the  hermit's  birds  were  much  better  than 
our  Lord's  people,  but  he  could  quite  understand  that 
God  the  Father  nevertheless  had  love  for  them. 

The  next  day  the  bird's  nest  stood  empty,  and  the 
bitterness  of  loneliness  filled  the  heart  of  the  her- 
mit. Slowly  his  arm  sank  down  to  his  side,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  all  nature  held  its  breath  to 
listen  for  the  thunder  of  the  trumpet  of  Doom.  But 
just  then  all  the  wagtails  came  again  and  lighted 
on  his  head  and  shoulders,  for  they  were  not  at  all 
afraid  of  him.  Then  a  ray  of  light  shot  through  old 
Hatto's  confused  brain.  He  had  lowered  his  arm, 
lowered  it  every  day  to  look  at  the  birds. 

And  standing  there  with  all  the  six  young  ones 
fluttering  and  playing  about  him,  he  nodded  con- 
tentedly to  some  one  whom  he  did  not  see.  "  I  let 
you  off,"  he  said,  "I  let  you  off.  I  have  not  kept 
my  word,  so  you  need  not  keep  yours." 

And  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  mountains  ceased 
to  tremble  and  as  if  the  river  laid  itself  down  in 
easy  calm  in  its  bed. 


THE    KING'S    GRAVE 


THE   KING'S   GRAVE 

IT  was  at  the  time  of  year  when  the  heather  is 
red.  It  grew  over  the  sand-hills  in  thick 
clumps.  From  low  tree-like  stems  close-growing 
green  branches  raised  their  hardy  ever-green  leaves 
and  unfading  flowers.  They  seemed  not  to  be  made 
of  ordinary,  juicy  flower  substance,  but  of  dry,  hard 
scales.  They  were  very  insignificant  in  size  and 
shape;  nor  was  their  fragrance  of  much  account. 
Children  of  the  open  moors,  they  had  not  unfolded 
in  the  still  air  where  lilies  open  their  alabaster 
petals;  nor  did  they  grow  in  the  rich  soil  from 
which  roses  draw  nourishment  for  their  swelling 
crowns.  What  made  them  flowers  was  really  their 
color,  for  they  were  glowing  red.  They  had  received 
the  color-giving  sunshine  in  plenty.  They  were  no 
pallid  cellar  growth ;  the  blessed  gaiety  and  strength 
of  health  lay  over  all  the  blossoming  heath. 

The  heather  covered  the  bare  fields  with  its  red 
mantle  up  to  the  edge  of  the  wood.  There,  on  a 
gently  sloping  ridge,  stood  some  ancient,  half  ruined 
stone  cairns ;  and  however  closely  the  heather  tried 
to  creep  to  these,  there  were  always  rents  in  its 
web,  through  which  were  visible  great,  flat  rocks, 
folds  in  the  mountain's  own  rough  skin.  Under  the 
biggest  of  these  piles  rested  an  old  king,  Atle  by 
name.  Under  the  others  slumbered  those  of  his 


72  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

warriors  who  had  fallen  when  the  great  battle  raged 
on  the  moor.  They  had  lain  there  now  so  long  that 
the  fear  and  respect  of  death  had  departed  from 
their  graves.  The  path  ran  between  their  resting- 
places.  The  wanderer  by  night  never  thought  to 
look  whether  forms  wrapped  in  mist  sat  at  midnight 
on  the  tops  of  the  cairns  staring  in  silent  longing  at 
the  stars. 

It  was  a  glittering  morning,  dewy  and  warm.  The 
hunter  who  had  been  out  since  daybreak  had  thrown 
himself  down  in  the  heather  behind  King  Atle's 
pile.  He  lay  on  his  back  and  slept.  He  had 
dragged  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes ;  and  under  his 
head  lay  his  leather  game-bag,  out  of  which  pro- 
truded a  hare's  long  ears  and  the  bent  tail-feathers 
of  a  black-cock.  His  bow  and  arrows  lay  beside 
him. 

From  out  of  the  wood  came  a  girl  with  a  bundle 
in  her  hand.  When  she  reached  the  flat  rock  be- 
tween the  piles  of  stones,  she  thought  what  a  good 
place  it  would  be  to  dance.  She  was  seized  with  an 
ardent  desire  to  try.  She  laid  her  bundle  on  the 
heather  and  began  to  dance  quite  alone.  She  had 
no  idea  that  a  man  lay  asleep  behind  the  king's 
cairn. 

The  hunter  still  slept.  The  heather  showed  burn- 
ing red  against  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky.  An  ant- 
hill stood  close  beside  the  sleeper.  On  it  lay  a 
piece  of  quartz,  which  sparkled  as  if  it  had  wished 
to  set  fire  to  all  the  old  stubble  of  the  heath. 
Above  the  hunter's  head  the  black-cock  feathers 
spread  out  like  a  plume,  and  their  iridescence 
shifted  from  deep  purple  to  steely  blue.  On  the 
unshaded  part  of  his  face  the  burning  sunshine 


THE  KING'S  GRAVE  73 

glowed.  But  he  did  not  open  his  eyes  to  look  at 
the  glory  of  the  morning. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  girl  continued  to  dance,  and 
whirled  about  so  eagerly  that  the  blackened  moss 
which  had  collected  in  the  unevennesses  of  the  rocks 
flew  about  her.  An  old,  dry  fir  root,  smooth  and 
gray  with  age,  lay  upturned  among  the  heather. 
She  took  it  and  whirled  about  with  it.  Chips  flew 
out  from  the  mouldering  wood.  Centipedes  and 
earwigs  that  had  lived  in  the  crevices  scurried  out 
head  over  heels  into  the  luminous  air  and  bored 
down  among  the  roots  of  the  heather. 

When  the  swinging  skirts  grazed  the  heather, 
clouds  of  small  grey  butterflies  fluttered  up  from  it. 
The  under  side  of  their  wings  was  white  and  silvery 
and  they  whirled  like  dry  leaves  in  a  squall.  They 
then  seemed  quite  white,  and  it  was  as  if  a  red  sea 
threw  up  white  foam.  The  butterflies  remained  for 
a  short  time  in  the  air.  Their  fragile  wings  flut- 
tered so  violently  that  the  down  loosened  and  fell 
like  thin  silver  white  feathers.  The  air  seemed  to 
be  filled  with  a  glorified  mist. 

On  the  heath  grasshoppers  sat  and  scraped  their 
back  legs  against  their  wings,  so  that  they  sounded 
like  harp  strings.  They  kept  good  time  and  played 
so  well  together,  that  to  any  one  passing  over  the 
moor  it  sounded  like  the  same  grasshopper  during 
the  whole  walk,  although  it  seemed  to  be  first  on 
the  right,  then  on  the  left;  now  in  front,  now 
behind.  But  the  dancer  was  not  content  with  their 
playing  and  began  after  a  little  while  to  hum  the 
measure  of  a  dance  tune.  Her  voice  was  shrill  and 
harsh.  The  hunter  was  waked  by  the  song.  He 
turned  on  his  side,  raised  himself  to  his  elbow,  and 


74  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

looked  over  the  pile  of  stones  at  the  dancing 
girl. 

He  had  dreamt  that  the  hare  which  he  had  just 
killed  had  leaped  out  of  the  bag  and  had  taken  his 
own  arrows  to  shoot  at  him.  He  now  stared  at  the 
girl  half  awake,  dizzy  with  his  dream,  his  head 
burning  from  sleeping  in  the  sun. 

She  was  tall  and  coarsely  built,  not  fair  of  face, 
nor  light  in  the  dance,  nor  tuneful  in  her  song. 
She  had  broad  cheeks,  thick  lips  and  a  flat  nose. 
She  had  very  red  cheeks,  very  dark  hair.  She  was 
exuberant  in  figure,  moving  with  vigor  and  life. 
Her  clothes  were  shabby  but  bright  in  color.  Red 
bands  edged  the  striped  skirt  and  bright  colored 
worsted  fringes  outlined  the  seams  of  her  bodice. 
Other  young  maidens  resemble  roses  and  lilies,  but 
she  was  like  the  heather,  strong,  gay  and  glowing. 

The  hunter  watched  with  pleasure  as  the  big, 
splendid  woman  danced  on  the  red  heath  among  the 
playing  grasshoppers  and  the  fluttering  butterflies. 
While  he  looked  at  her  he  laughed  so  that  his 
mouth  was  drawn  up  towards  his  ears.  But  then  she 
suddenly  caught  sight  of  him  and  stood  motion- 
less. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  am  mad,"  was  the  first 
thing  that  occurred  to  her  to  say.  At  the  same 
time  she  wondered  how  she  would  get  him  to  hold 
his  tongue  about  what  he  had  seen.  She  did  not 
care  to  hear  it  told  down  in  the  village  that  she  had 
danced  with  a  fir  root. 

He  was  a  man  poor  in  words.  Not  a  syllable 
could  he  utter.  He  was  so  shy  that  he  could  think 
of  nothing  better  than  to  run  away,  although  he 
longed  to  stay.  Hastily  he  got  his  hat  on  his  head 


THE  KING'S  GRAVE  75 

and  his  leather  bag  on  his  back.  Then  he  ran  away 
through  the  clumps  of  heather. 

She  snatched  up  her  bundle  and  ran  after  him. 
He  was  small,  stiff  in  his  movements  and  evidently 
had  very  little  strength.  She  soon  caught  up  with 
him  and  knocked  his  hat  off  to  induce  him  to  stop. 
He  really  wished  to  do  so,  but  he  was  confused  with 
shyness  and  fled  with  still  greater  speed.  She  ran 
after  him  and  began  to  pull  at  his  game-bag.  Then 
he  had  to  stop  to  defend  it.  She  fell  upon  him  with 
all  her  strength.  They  fought,  and  she  threw  him  to 
the  ground.  "  Now  he  will  not  speak  of  it  to  any 
one,"  she  thought,  and  rejoiced. 

At  the  same  moment,  however,  she  grew  sick 
with  fright,  for  the  man  who  lay  on  the  ground 
turned  livid  and  his  eyes  rolled  inwards  in  his  head. 
He  was  not  hurt  in  any  way,  however.  He  could 
not  bear  emotion.  Never  before  had  so  strong  and 
conflicting  feelings  stirred  within  that  lonely  forest 
dweller.  He  rejoiced  over  the  girl  and  was  angry 
and  ashamed  and  yet  proud  that  she  was  so  strong. 
He 'was  quite  out  of  his  head  with  it  all. 

The  big,  strong  girl  put  her  arm  under  his  back 
and  lifted  him  up.  She  broke  the  heather  and 
whipped  his  face  with  the  stiff  twigs  until  the  blood 
came  back  to  it.  When  his  little  'eyes  again  turned 
towards  the  light  of  day,  they  shone  with  pleasure 
at  the  sight  of  her.  He  was  still  silent;  but  he 
drew  forward  the  hand  which  she  had  placed  about 
his  waist  and  caressed  it  gently. 

He  was  a  child  of  starvation  and  early  toil.  He 
was  dry  and  pallid,  thin  and  anaemic.  She  was 
touched  by  his  faintheartedness;  he  who  neverthe- 
less seemed  to  be  about  thirty  years  old.  She 


76  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

thought  that  he  must  live  quite  alone  in  the  forest 
since  he  was  so  pitiful  and  so  meanly  dressed.  He 
could  have  no  one  to  look  after  him,  neither  mother 
nor  sister  nor  sweetheart. 

The  great  compassionate  forest  spread  over  the 
wilderness.  Concealing  and  protecting,  it  took  to 
its  heart  everything  which  sought  its  help.  With 
its  lofty  trunks  it  kept  watch  by  the  lair  of  the  fox 
and  the  bear,  and  in  the  twilight  of  the  thick  bushes 
it  hid  the  egg-filled  nests  of  little  birds. 

At  the  time  when  people  still  had  slaves,  many 
of  them  escaped  to  the  woods  and  found  shelter 
behind  its  green  walls.  It  became  a  great  prison 
for  them  which  they  did  not  dare  to  leave.  The 
forest  held  its  prisoners  in  strict  discipline.  It 
forced  the  dull  ones  to  use  their  wits  and  educated 
those  ruined  by  slavery  to  order  and  honor.  Only 
to  the  industrious  did  it  give  the  right  to  live. 

The  two  who  met  on  the  heath  were  descendants 
of  such  prisoners  of  the  forest.  They  sometimes 
went  down  to  the  inhabited,  cultivated  valleys,  for 
they  no  longer  feared  to  be  reduced  to  the  slavery 
from  which  their  forefathers  had  fled,  but  they  were 
happiest  in  the  dimness  of  the  forest.  The  hunter's 
name  was  Tonne.  His  real  work  was  to  cultivate 
the  earth,  but  he  also  could  do  other  things.  He 
collected  herbs,  boiled  tar,  dried  punk,  and  often 
went  hunting.  The  dancer  was  called  Jofrid.  Her 
father  was  a  charcoal  burner.  She  tied  brooms, 
picked  juniper-berries  and  brewed  ale  of  the  white- 
flowering  myrtle.  They  were  both  very  poor. 

They  had  never  met  before  in  the  big  wood,  but 
now  they  thought  that  all  its  paths  wound  into  a 


THE  KING'S  GRAVE  77 

net,  in  which  they  ran  forward  and  back  and  could 
not  possibly  escape  one  another.  They  never  knew 
how  to  choose  a  way  where  they  did  not  meet. 

Tonne  had  once  had  a  great  sorrow.  He  had  lived 
with  his  mother  for  a  long  while  in  a  miserable, 
wattled  hut,  but  as  soon  as  he  was  grown  up  he  was 
seized  with  the  idea  to  build  her  a  warm  cabin. 
During  all  his  leisure  moments  he  went  into  the 
clearing,  cut  down  trees  and  hewed  them  into  squared 
pieces.  Then  he  hid  the  timber  in  dark  crannies 
under  moss  and  branches.  It  was  his  intention  that 
his  mother  should  not  know  anything  of  all  this 
work  before  he  was  ready  to  build  the  house.  But 
his  mother  died  before  he  could  show  her  what  he 
had  collected;  before  he  had  time  to  tell  her  what 
he  had  wished  to  do.  He,  who  had  worked  with 
the  same  zeal  as  David,  King  of  Israel,  when  he 
gathered  treasures  for  the  temple  of  God,  grieved 
most  bitterly  over  it.  He  lost  all  interest  in  the 
building.  For  him  the  brushwood  shelter  was  good 
enough.  Yet  he  was  hardly  better  off  in  his  home 
than  an  animal  in  its  hole. 

When  he,  who  had  always  heretofore  crept  about 
alone,  was  now  seized  with  the  desire  to  seek  Jofrid's 
company,  it  certainly  meant  that  he  would  like  to 
have  her  for  his  sweetheart  and  his  bride.  Jofrid 
also  waited  daily  for  him  to  speak  to  her  father  or 
to  herself  about  the  matter.  But  Tonne  could  not. 
This  showed  that  he  was  of  a  race  of  slaves.  The 
thoughts  that  came  into  his  head  moved  as  slowly 
as  the  sun  when  he  travels  across  the  sky.  And  it 
was  more  difficult  for  him  to  shape  those  thoughts 
to  connected  speech  than  for  a  smith  to  forge  a 
bracelet  out  of  rolling  grains  of  sand. 


78  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

One  day  Tonne  took  Jofrid  to  one  of  the  clefts, 
where  he  had  hidden  his  timber.  He  pulled  aside 
the  branches  and  moss  and  showed  her  the  squared 
beams.  "That  was  to  have  been  mother's  house," 
he  said.  The  young  girl  was  strangely  slow  in 
understanding  a  young  man's  thoughts.  When  he 
showed  her  his  mother's  logs  she  ought  to  have 
understood,  but  she  did  not  understand. 

Then  he  decided  to  make  his  meaning  even  plainer. 
A  few  days  later  he  began  to  drag  the  logs  up  to 
the  place  between  the  cairns,  where  he  had  seen 
Jofrid  for  the  first  time.  She  came  as  usual  along 
the  path  and  saw  him  at  work.  Nevertheless  she 
went  on  without  saying  anything.  Since  they  had 
become  friends  she  had  often  given  him  a  good 
handshake,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  want  to  help 
him  with  the  heavy  work.  Tonne  still  thought  that 
she  ought  to  have  understood  that  it  was  now  her 
house  which  he  meant  to  build. 

She  understood  it  very  well,  but  she  had  no 
desire  to  give  herself  to  such  a  man  as  Tonne.  She 
wished  to  have  a  strong  and  healthy  husband.  She 
thought  it  would  be  a  poor  livelihood  to  marry  any 
one  who  was  weak  and  dull.  Still,  there  was  much 
which  drew  her  to  that  silent,  shy  man.  She 
thought  how  hard  he  had  worked  to  gladden  his 
mother  and  had  not  enjoyed  the  happiness  of  being 
ready  in  time.  She  could  weep  for  his  sake.  And 
now  he  was  building  the  house  just  where  he  had 
seen  her  dance.  He  had  a  good  heart.  And  that 
interested  her  and  fixed  her  thoughts  on  him,  but 
she  did  not  at  all  wish  to  marry  him. 

Every  day  she  went  over  the  heather  field  and  saw 
the  log-cabin  grow,  miserable  and  without  windows, 


THE  KING'S  GRAVE  79 

with  the  sunlight  filtering  in  through  the  leaky 
walls. 

Tonne's  work  progressed  very  quickly,  but  not 
with  care.  His  timbers  were  not  bent  square,  the 
bark  was  scarcely  taken  off.  He  laid  the  floor  with 
split  young  trees.  It  was  uneven  and  shaky.  The 
heather,  which  grew  and  blossomed  under  it,  —  for 
a  year  had  passed  since  the  day  when  Tonne  had 
lain  aleep  behind  King  Atle's  pile,  —  pushed  up 
bold  red  clusters  through  the  cracks,  and  ants  with- 
out number  wandered  out  and  in,  inspecting  the 
fragile  work  of  man. 

Wherever  Jofrid  went  during  those  days,  the 
thought  never  left  her  that  a  house  was  being  built 
for  her  there.  A  home  was  being  prepared  for  her 
upon  the  heath.  And  she  knew  that  if  she  did  not 
enter  there  as  mistress,  the  bear  and  the  fox  would 
make  it  their  home.  For  she  knew  Tonne  well 
enough  to  understand  that  if  he  found  he  had  worked 
in  vain,  he  would  never  move  into  the  new  house. 
He  would  weep,  poor  man,  when  he  heard  that  she 
would  not  live  there.  It  would  be  a  new  sorrow  for 
him,  as  deep  as  when  his  mother  died.  But  he  had 
himself  to  blame,  because  he  had  not  asked  her  in  time. 

She  thought  that  she  gave  him  a  sufficient  hint  in 
not  helping  him  with  the  house.  She  often  felt 
impelled  to  do  so.  Every  time  she  saw  any  soft, 
white  moss,  she  wanted  to  pick  it  to  fill  in  the  leaky 
walls.  She  longed,  too,  to  help  Tonne  to  build  the 
chimney.  As  he  was  making  it,  all  the  smoke 
would  gather  in  the  house.  But  it  did  not  matter 
how  it  was.  No  food  would  ever  be  cooked  there, 
no  ale  brewed.  Still  it  was  odious  that  the  house 
would  never  leave  her  thoughts. 


80  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Tonne  worked,  glowing  with  eagerness,  certain 
that  Jofrid  would  understand  his  meaning,  if  only 
the  house  were  ready.  He  did  not  wonder  much 
about  her;  he  had  enough  to  do  to  hew  and  shape. 
The  days  went  quickly  for  him. 

One  afternoon,  when  Jofrid  came  over  the  moor, 
she  saw  that  there  was  a  door  in  the  cottage  and  a 
slab  of  stone  for  a  threshold.  Then  she  understood 
that  everything  must  now  be  ready,  and  she  was 
much  agitated.  Tonne  had  covered  the  roof  with 
tufts  of  flowering  heather,  and  she  was  seized  by  an 
intense  longing  to  enter  under  that  red  roof.  He 
was  not  at  the  new  house  and  she  decided  to  go  in. 
The  house  was  built  for  her.  It  was  her  home.  It 
was  not  possible  to  resist  the  desire  to  see  it. 

Within  it  was  more  attractive  than  she  had  ex- 
pected. Rushes  were  strewed  over  the  floor.  It 
was  full  of  the  fresh  fragrance  of  pine  and  resin. 
The  sunshine  that  played  through  the  windows  and 
cracks  made  bands  of  light  through  the  air.  It 
looked  as  if  she  had  been  expected ;  in  the  crannies 
of  the  wall  green  branches  were  stuck,  and  in  the 
fireplace  stood  a  newly  cut  fir-tree.  Tonne  had  not 
moved  in  his  old  furniture.  There  was  nothing  but 
a  new  table  and  a  bench,  over  which  an  elk  skin 
was  thrown. 

As  soon  as  Jofrid  had  crossed  the  threshold,  she 
felt  the  pleasant  cosiness  of  home  surrounding  her. 
She  was  happy  and  content  while  she  stood  there, 
but  to  leave  it  seemed  to  her  as  hard  as  to  go  away 
and  serve  strangers.  It  happened  that  Jofrid  had 
expended  much  hard  work  in  procuring  a  kind  of 
dower  for  herself.  With  skilful  hands  she  had 
woven  bright-colored  fabrics,  such  as  are  used  to 


THE  KING'S   GRAVE  8 1 

adorn  a  room,  and  she  wanted  to  put  them  up  in  her 
own  home,  when  she  got  one.  Now  she  wondered 
how  those  cloths  would  look  here.  She  wished  she 
could  try  them  in  the  new  house. 

She  hurried  quickly  home,  fetched  her  roll  of 
weavings  and  began  to  fasten  the  bright-colored 
pieces  of  cloth  up  under  the  roof.  She  threw  open 
the  door  to  let  the  big  setting  sun  shine  on  her  and 
her  work.  She  moved  eagerly  about  the  cottage, 
brisk,  gay,  humming  a  merry  tune.  She  was  per- 
fectly happy.  It  looked  so  fine.  The  woven  roses 
and  stars  shone  as  never  before. 

While  she  worked  she  kept  a  good  look-out  over 
the  moor  and  the  graves,  for  it  seemed  to  her  as  if 
Tonne  might  now  too  be  lying  hidden  behind  one  of 
the  cairns  and  laughing  at  her.  The  king's  grave 
lay  opposite  the  door  and  behind  it  she  saw  the  sun 
setting.  Time  after  time  she  looked  out.  She  felt 
as  if  some  one  was  sitting  there  and  watching 
her. 

Just  as  the  sun  was  so  low  that  only  a  few  blood- 
red  beams  filtered  over  the  old  stone  heap,  she  saw 
who  it  was  who  was  watching  her.  The  whole  pile 
of  stones  was  no  longer  stones,  but  a  mighty,  old 
warrior,  who  was  sitting  there,  scarred  and  gray, 
and  staring  at  her.  Round  about  his  head  the  rays 
of  the  sun  made  a  crown,  and  his  red  mantle  was  so 
wide  that  it  spread  over  the  whole  moor.  His 
head  was  big  and  heavy,  his  face  gray  as  stone.  His 
clothes  and  weapons  were  also  stone-colored,  and 
repeated  so  exactly  the  shadings  and  mossiness  of 
the  rock,  that  one  had  to  look  closely  to  see  that  it 
was  a  warrior  and  not  a  pile  of  stones.  It  was  like 
those  insects  which  resemble  tree-twigs.  One  can 

6 


82  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

go  by  them  twenty  times  before  one  sees  that  it  is 
a  soft  animal  body  one  has  taken  for  hard  wood. 

But  Jofrid  could  no  longer  be  mistaken.  It  was 
the  old  King  Atle  himself  sitting  there.  She  stood 
in  the  doorway,  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and 
looked  right  into  his  stony  face.  He  had  very 
small,  oblique  eyes  under  a  dome-like  brow,  a  broad 
nose  and  a  long  beard.  And  he  was  alive,  that 
man  of  stone.  He  smiled  and  winked  at  her.  She 
was  afraid,  and  what  terrified  her  most  of  all  were 
his  thick,  muscular  arms  and  hairy  hands.  The 
longer  she  looked  at  him  the  broader  grew  his 
smile,  and  at  last  he  lifted  one  of  his  mighty  arms 
to  beckon  her  to  him.  Then  Jofrid  took  flight 
towards  home. 

But  when  Tonne  came  home  and  saw  the  house 
adorned  with  starry  weavings,  he  found  courage  to 
send  a  friend  to  Jofrid1  s  father.  The  latter  asked 
Jofrid  what  she  thought  about  it  and  she  gave  her 
consent.  She  was  well  pleased  with  the  way  it  had 
turned  out,  even  if  she  had  been  half  forced  to  give 
her  hand.  She  could  not  say  no  to  the  man,  to 
whose  house  she  had  already  carried  her  dower. 
Still  she  looked  first  to  see  that  old  King  Atle  had 
again  become  a  pile  of  stones. 

Tonne  and  Jofrid  lived  happily  for  many  years. 
They  earned  a  good  reputation.  "They  are  good," 
people  said.  "  See  how  they  stand  by  one  another, 
see  how  they  work  together,  see  how  one  cannot  live 
apart  from  the  other !  " 

Tonne  grew  stronger,  more  enduring  and  less 
heavy-witted  every  day.  Jofrid  seemed  to  have 
made  a  whole  man  of  him.  Almost  always  he  let 


THE  KING'S  GRAVE  83 

her  rule,  but  he  also  understood  how  to  carry  out 
his  own  will  with  tenacious  obstinacy. 

Jests  and  merriment  followed  Jofrid  wherever  she 
went.  Her  clothes  became  more  vivid  the  older 
she  grew.  Her  whole  face  was  bright  red.  But  in 
Tonne's  eyes  she  was  beautiful. 

They  were  not  so  poor  as  many  others  of  their 
class.  They  ate  butter  with  their  porridge  and 
mixed  neither  bran  nor  bark  in  their  bread.  Myrtle 
ale  foamed  in  their  tankards.  Their  flocks  of  sheep 
and  goats  increased  so  quickly  that  they  could  allow 
themselves  meat. 

Tonne  once  worked  for  a  peasant  in  the  valley. 
The  latter,  who  saw  how  he  and  his  wife  worked 
together  with  great  gaiety,  thought  like  many 
another:  "See,  these  are  good  people." 

The  peasant  had  lately  lost  his  wife,  and  she  had 

left  behind  her  a  child  six  months  old.     He  asked 

Tonne  and  Jofrid  to  take  his  son  as  a  foster-child. 

"The  child  is  very  dear  to  me,"  he  said,  "therefore 

I  give  it  to  you,  for  you  are  good  people. " 

They  had  no  children  of  their  own,  so  that  it 
seemed  very  fitting  for  them  to  take  it.  They 
accepted  it  too  without  hesitation.  They  thought  it 
would  be  to  their  advantage  to  bring  up  a  peasant's 
child,  besides  which  they  expected  to  be  cheered  in 
their  old  age  by  their  foster-son. 

But  the  child  did  not  live  to  grow  up  with  them. 
Before  the  year  was  out  it  was  dead.  It  was  said 
by  many  that  it  was  the  fault  of  the  foster-parents, 
for  the  child  had  been  unusually  strong  before  it 
came  to  them.  By  that  no  one  meant,  however, 
that  they  had  killed  it  intentionally,  but  rather  that 
they  had  undertaken  something  beyond  their  powers. 


84  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

They  had  not  had  sense  or  love  enough  to  give  it 
the  care  it  needed.  They  were  accustomed  only  to 
think  of  themselves  and  to  look  out  for  themselves. 
They  had  no  time  to  care  for  a  child.  They  wished 
to  go  together  to  their  work  every  day  and  to  sleep 
a  quiet  sleep  at  night.  They  thought  that  the  child 
drank  too  much  of  their  good  milk  and  did  not  allow 
him  as  much  as  themselves.  They  had  no  idea  that 
they  were  treating  the  boy  badly.  They  thought 
that  they  were  just  as  tender  to  him  as  parents 
generally  are.  It  seemed  more  to  them  as  if  their 
foster-son  had  been  a  punishment  and  a  torment. 
They  did  not  mourn  him  when  he  died. 

Women  usually  enjoy  nothing  better  than  to  take 
care  of  a  child ;  but  Jofrid  had  a  husband,  whom  she 
often  had  to  care  for  like  a  mother,  so  that  she 
desired  no  one  else.  They  also  love  to  see  their 
children's  quick  growth;  but  Jofrid  had  pleasure 
enough  in  watching  Tonne  develop  sense  and  manli- 
ness, in  adorning  and  taking  care  of  her  house,  in 
the  increase  of  their  flocks,  and  in  the  crops  which 
they  were  raising  below  on  the  moor. 

Jofrid  went  to  the  peasant's  farm  and  told  him 
that  the  child  was  dead.  Then  the  man  said :  "  I 
am  like  the  man  who  puts  cushions  in  his  bed  so 
soft  that  he  sinks  down  to  the  hard  bottom.  I 
wished  to  care  too  well  for  my  son,  and  look,  now 
he  is  dead  ! "  And  he  was  heart-broken. 

At  his  words  Jofrid  began  to  weep  bitterly. 
"  Would  to  God  that  you  had  not  left  your  son  with 
us!  "she  said.  "  We  were  too  poor.  He  could  not 
get  what  he  needed  with  us." 

"That  is  not  what  I  meant,"  answered  the  peasant. 
"I  believe  that  you  have  over-indulged  the  child. 


THE  KING'S  GRAVE  85 

But  I  will  not  accuse  any  one,  for  over  life  and 
death  God  alone  rules.  Now  I  mean  to  celebrate 
the  funeral  of  my  only  son  with  the  same  expense  as 
if  he  had  been  full  grown,  and  to  the  feast  I  invite 
both  Tonne  and  you.  By  that  you  may  know  that  I 
bear  you  no  grudge." 

So  Tonne  and  Jofrid  went  to  the  funeral  banquet. 
They  were  well  treated,  and  no  one  said  anything 
unfriendly  to  them.  The  women  who  had  dressed 
the  child's  body  had  related  that  it  had  been  miser- 
ably thin  and  had  borne  marks  of  great  neglect. 
But  that  could  easily  come  from  sickness.  No  one 
wished  to  believe  anything  bad  about  the  foster- 
parents,  for  it  was  known  that  they  were  good 
people. 

Jofrid  wept  a  great  deal  during  those  days,  espe- 
cially when  she  heard  the  women  tell  how  they  had 
to  wake  and  toil  for  their  little  children.  She 
noticed,  too,  that  the  women  at  the  funeral  were 
continually  talking  of  their  children.  Some  rejoiced 
so  in  them  that  they  never  could  stop  telling  of 
their  questions  and  games.  Jofrid  would  have  liked 
to  have  talked  about  Tonne,  but  most  of  them  never 
spoke  of  their  husbands. 

Late  one  evening  Jofrid  and  Tonne  came  home 
from  the  festivities.  They  went  straight  to  bed. 
But  hardly  had  they  fallen  asleep  before  they  were 
waked  by  a  feeble  crying.  "It  is  the  child,"  they 
thought,  still  half  asleep,  and  were  angry  at  being 
disturbed.  But  suddenly  both  of  them  sat  right  up 
in  the  bed.  The  child  was  dead.  Where  did  that 
crying  come  from  ?  When  they  were  quite  awake, 
they  heard  nothing,  but  as  soon  as  they  began  to 
drop  off  to  sleep  they  heard  it.  Little,  tottering 


86  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

feet  sounded  on  the  stone  threshold  outside  the 
house,  a  little  hand  groped  for  the  door,  and  when  it 
could  not  open  it,  the  child  crept  crying  and  feeling 
along  the  wall,  until  it  stopped  just  outside  where 
they  were  sleeping.  As  soon  as  they  spoke  or  sat 
up,  they  perceived  nothing;  but  when  they  tried  to 
sleep,  they  distinctly  heard  the  uncertain  steps  and 
the  suppressed  sobbings. 

That  which  they  had  not  wished  to  believe,  but 
which  seemed  a  possibility  during  these  last  days, 
now  became  a  certainty.  They  felt  that  they  had 
killed  the  child.  Why  otherwise  should  it  have  the 
power  to  haunt  them  ? 

From  that  night  all  happiness  left  them.  They 
lived  in  constant  fear  of  the  ghost.  By  day  they 
had  some  peace,  but  at  night  they  were  so  disturbed 
by  the  child's  weeping  and  choking  sobs,  that  they 
did  not  dare  to  sleep  alone.  Jofrid  often  went  long 
distances  to  get  some  one  to  stop  over  night  in  their 
house.  If  there  was  any  stranger  there,  it  was 
quiet,  but  as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  they  heard 
the  child. 

One  night,  when  they  had  found  no  one  to  keep 
them  company  and  could  not  sleep  for  the  child, 
Jofrid  got  up  from  her  bed. 

"You  sleep,  Tonne,"  she  said.  "If  I  keep  awake, 
we  will  not  hear  anything." 

She  went  out  and  sat  down  on  the  doorstep,  think- 
ing of  what  they  ought  to  do  to  get  peace,  for  they 
could  not  go  on  living  as  things  were.  She  won- 
dered if  confession  and  penance  and  mortification 
and  repentance  could  relieve  them  from  this  heavy 
punishment. 

Then   it  happened  that  she  raised  her  eyes  and 


THE  KING'S  GRAVE  87 

saw  the  same  vision  as  once  before  from  this  place. 
The  pile  of  stones  had  changed  to  a  warrior.  The 
night  was  quite  dark,  but  still  she  could  plainly  see 
that  old  King  Atle  sat  there  and  watched  her.  She 
saw  him  so  well  that  she  could  distinguish  the  moss- 
grown  bracelets  on  his  wrists  and  could  see  how  his 
legs  were  bound  with  crossed  bands,  between  which 
his  calf  muscles  swelled. 

This  time  she  was  not  afraid  of  the  old  man.  He 
seemed  to  be  a  friend  and  consoler  in  her  unhappi- 
ness.  He  looked  at  her  with  pity,  as  if  he  wished 
to  give  her  courage.  Then  she  thought  that  the 
mighty  warrior  had  once  had  his  day,  when  he  had 
overthrown  hundreds  of  enemies  there  on  the  heath 
and  waded  through  the  streams  of  blood  that  had 
poured  between  the  clumps.  What  had  he  thought 
of  one  dead  man  more  or  less?  How  much  would 
the  sight  of  children,  whose  fathers  he  had  killed, 
have  moved  his  heart  of  stone  ?  Light  as  air  would 
the  burden  of  a  child's  death  have  rested  on  his 
conscience. 

And  she  heard  his  whisper,  the  same  which  the 
old  stone-cold  heathenism  had  whispered  through 
all  time.  "  Why  repent  ?  The  gods  rule  us.  The 
fates  spin  the  threads  of  life.  Why  shall  the  chil- 
dren of  earth  mourn  because  they  have  done  what 
the  immortal  gods  have  forced  them  to  do  ? " 

Then  Jofrid  took  courage  and  said  to  herself: 
"How  am  I  to  blame  because  the  child  died?  It  is 
God  alone  who  decides.  Nothing  takes  place  with- 
out his  will."  And  she  thought  that  she  could  lay 
the  ghost  by  putting  all  repentance  from  her. 

But  now  the  door  opened  and  Tonne  came  out  to 
her.  "Jofrid,"  he  said,  "it  is  in  the  house  now. 


88  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

It  came  up  and  knocked  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
woke  me.  What  shall  we  do,  Jofrid? " 

"The  child  is  dead,"  said  Jofrid.  "You  know 
that  it  is  lying  deep  under  ground.  All  this  is  only 
dreams  and  imagination."  She  spoke  hardly  and 
coldly,  for  she  feared  that  Tonne  would  do  some- 
thing reckless,  and  thereby  cause  them  misfortune. 

"  We  must  put  an  end  to  it,"  said  Tonne. 

Jofrid  laughed  dismally.  "  What  do  you  wish  to 
do?  God  has  sent  this  to  us.  Could  He  not  have 
kept  the  child  alive  if  He  had  chosen?  He  did  not 
wish  it,  and  now  He  persecutes  us  for  its  death. 
Tell  me  by  what  right  He  persecutes  us  ? " 

She  got  her  words  from  the  old  stone  warrior, 
who  sat  dark  and  high  on  his  pile.  It  seemed  as  if 
he  suggested  to  her  everything  she  answered  Tonne. 

"We  must  acknowledge  that  we  have  neglected 
the  child,  and  do  penance,"  said  Tonne. 

"Never  will  I  suffer  for  what  is  not  my  fault," 
said  Jofrid.  "Who  wanted  the  child  to  die?  Not 
I,  not  I.  What  kind  of  a  penance  will  you  do? 
You  need  all  your  strength  for  work." 

"  I  have  already  tried  with  scourging,"  said  Tonne. 
"It  is  of  no  avail." 

"You  see,"  she  said,  and  laughed  again. 

"We  must  try  something  else,"  Tonne  went  on 
with  persistent  determination.  "  We  must  confess. " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  tell  God,  that  He  does  not 
know?"  mocked  Jofrid.  " Does  He  not  guide  your 
thoughts,  Tonne?  What  will  you  tell  Him?"  She 
thought  that  Tonne  was  stupid  and  obstinate.  She 
had  found  him  so  in  the  beginning  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, but  since  then  she  had  not  thought  of  it,  but 
had  loved  him  for  his  good  heart. 


THE  KINGS  GRAVE  89 

"  We  will  confess  to  the  father,  Jofrid,  and  offer 
him  compensation." 

"  What  will  you  offer  him  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  house  and  the  goats. " 

"  He  will  certainly  demand  an  enormous  compen- 
sation for  his  only  son.  All  that  we  possess  would 
not  be  enough. " 

"  We  will  give  ourselves  as  slaves  into  his  power, 
if  he  is  not  content  with  less." 

At  these  words  Jofrid  was  seized  by  cold  despair, 
and  she  hated  Tonne  from  the  depths  of  her  soul. 
Everything  she  would  lose  appeared  so  plainly  to 
her,  — freedom,  for  which  her  ancestors  had  ventured 
their  lives,  the  house,  her  comforts,  honor  and 
happiness. 

"  Mark  my  words,  Tonne, "  she  said  hoarsely,  half 
choked  with  pain,  "that  the  day  you  do  that  thing 
will  be  the  day  of  my  death." 

After  that  no  more  words  were  exchanged  between 
them,  but  they  remained  sitting  on  the  doorstep 
until  the  day  came.  Neither  found  a  word  to 
appease  or  to  conciliate;  each  felt  fear  and  scorn  of 
the  other.  The  one  measured  the  other  by  the 
standard  of  his  own  anger,  and  they  found  each  other 
narrow-minded  and  bad-tempered. 

After  that  night  Jofrid  could  not  refrain  from 
letting  Tonne  feel  that  he  was  her  inferior.  She  let 
him  understand  in  the  presence  of  others  that  he 
was  stupid,  and  helped  him  with  his  work  so  that 
he  had  to  think  how  much  stronger  she  was.  She 
evidently  wished  to  take  away  from  him  all  rights  as 
master  of  the  house.  Sometimes  she  pretended  to 
be  very  lively,  to  distract  him  and  to  prevent  him 
from  brooding.  He  had  not  done  anything  to  carry 


go  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

out  his  plan,  but  she  did  not  believe  that  he  had 
given  it  up. 

During  this  time  Tonne  became  more  and  more 
as  he  was  before  his  marriage.  He  grew  thin  and 
pale,  silent  and  slow-witted.  Jofrid's  despair  in- 
creased each  day,  for  it  seemed  as  if  everything  was 
to  be  taken  from  her.  Her  love  for  Tonne  came 
back,  however,  when  she  saw  him  unhappy.  "  What 
is  any  of  it  worth  to  me  if  Tonne  is  ruined?"  she 
thought.  "  It  is  better  to  go  into  slavery  with  him 
than  to  see  him  die  in  freedom.'* 

Jofrid,  however,  could  not  at  once  decide  to  obey 
Tonne.  She  fought  a  long  and  severe  fight.  But 
one  morning  she  awoke  in  an  unusually  calm  and 
gentle  mood.  Then  she  thought  that  she  could 
now  do  what  he  demanded.  And  she  waked  him, 
saying  that  it  should  be  as  he  wished.  Only  that 
one  day  he  should  grant  her  to  say  farewell  to  every- 
thing. 

The  whole  forenoon  she  went  about  strangely 
gentle.  Tears  rose  easily  to  her  eyes.  The  heath 
was  beautiful  that  day  for  her  sake,  she  thought. 
Frost  had  passed  over  it,  the  flowers  were  gone,  and 
the  whole  moor  had  turned  brown.  But  when  it 
was  lighted  by  the  slanting  rays  of  the  autumn  sun, 
it  looked  as  if  the  heather  glowed  red  once  more. 
And  she  remembered  the  day  when  she  saw  Tonne 
for  the  first  time. 

She  wished  that  she  might  see  the  old  king  once 
more,  for  he  had  helped  her  to  find  her  happiness. 
She  had  been  seriously  afraid  of  him  of  late.  She 
felt  as  if  he  were  lying  in  wait  to  seize  her.  But 
now  she  thought  he  could  no  longer  have  any  power 


THE  KING'S  GRAVE  91 

over   her.     She   would  remember  to   look  for  him 
towards  night  when  the  moon  rose. 

It  happened  that  a  couple  of  wandering  musicians 
came  by  about  noon.  Jofrid  had  the  idea  to  ask 
them  to  stop  at  her  house  the  whole  afternoon,  for 
she  wished  to  have  a  dance.  Tonne  had  to  hasten 
to  her  parents  and  ask  them  to  come.  And  her 
small  brothers  and  sisters  ran  down  to  the  village 
for  the  other  guests.  Soon  many  people  had 
collected. 

There  was  great  gaiety.  Tonne  kept  apart  in  a 
corner  of  the  house,  as  was  his  habit  when  they  had 
guests,  but  Jofrid  was  quite  wild  in  her  fun.  With 
shrill  voice  she  led  the  dance  and  was  eager  in 
offering  her  guests  the  foaming  ale.  There  was  not 
much  room  in  the  cottage,  but  the  fiddlers  were 
untiring,  and  the  dance  went  on  with  life  and  spirit. 
It  grew  suffocatingly  warm.  The  door  was  thrown 
open,  and  all  at  once  Jofrid  saw  that  night  had  come 
and  that  the  moon  had  risen.  Then  she  went  to  the 
door  and  looked  out  into  the  white  world  of  the 
moonlight. 

A  heavy  dew  had  fallen.  The  whole  heath  was 
white,  as  the  moon  was  reflected  in  all  the  little 
drops,  which  had  collected  on  every  twig.  There 
Tonne  and  she  would  go  to-morrow  hand  in  hand  to 
meet  the  most  terrible  dishonor.  For,  however  the 
meeting  with  the  peasant  should  turn  out,  whatever 
he  might  take  or  whatever  he  might  let  them  keep, 
dishonor  would  certainly  be  their  lot.  They,  who 
that  evening  possessed  a  good  cottage  and  many 
friends,  to-morrow  would  be  despised  and  detested 
by  all,  perhaps  they  would  also  be  robbed  of  every- 
thing they  had  earned,  perhaps,  too,  be  dishonored 


92  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

slaves.  She  said  to  herself:  "It  is  the  way  of 
death."  And  now  she  could  not  understand  how 
she  would  ever  have  the  strength  to  walk  in  it.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  if  she  were  of  stone,  a  heavy  stone 
image  like  old  King  Atle.  Although  she  was  alive, 
she  felt  as  if  she  would  not  be  able  to  lift  her  heavy 
stone  limbs  to  walk  that  way. 

She  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  king's  grave  and 
distinctly  saw  the  old  warrior  sitting  there.  But 
now  he  was  adorned  as  for  a  feast.  He  no  longer 
wore  the  gray,  moss-grown  stone  attire,  but  white, 
glittering  silver.  Now  again  he  wore  a  crown  of 
beams,  as  when  she  first  saw  him,  but  this  one  was 
white.  And  white  shone  his  breastplate  and  arm- 
lets, shining  white  were  sword,  hilt,  and  shield.  He 
sat  and  watched  her  with  silent  indifference.  The 
unfathomable  mystery  which  great  stone  faces  wear 
had  now  sunk  down  over  him.  There  he  sat  dark 
and  mighty,  and  Jofrid  had  a  faint,  indistinct  idea 
that  he  was  an  image  of  something  which  was  in 
herself  and  in  all  men,  of  something  which  was 
buried  in  far-away  centuries,  covered  by  many 
stones,  and  still  not  dead.  She  saw  him,  the  old 
king,  sitting  deep  in  the  human  heart.  Over  its 
barren  field  he  spread  his  wide  king's  mantle.  There 
pleasure  danced,  there  love  of  display  flaunted.  He 
was  the  great  stone  warrior  who  saw  famine  and 
poverty  pass  by  without  his  stone  heart  being  moved. 
"It  is  the  will  of  the  gods,"  he  said.  He  was  the 
strong  man  of  stone,  who  could  bear  unatoned-for 
sin  without  fielding.  He  always  said :  "  Why  grieve 
for  what  you  have  done,  compelled  by  the  immortal 
gods?" 

Jofrid's  breast  was  shaken  by  a  sigh  deep  as  a 


THE  KING'S  GRAVE  93 

sob.  She  had  a  feeling  which  she  could  not  explain, 
a  feeling  that  she  ought  to  struggle  with  the  man 
of  stone,  if  she  was  to  be  happy.  But  at  the  same 
time  she  felt  helplessly  weak. 

Her  impenitence  and  the  struggle  out  on  the 
heath  seemed  to  her  to  be  one  and  the  same  thing, 
and  if  she  could  not  conquer  the  first  by  some  means 
or  other,  the  last  would  gain  power  over  her. 

She  looked  back  towards  the  cottage,  where  the 
weavings  glowed  under  the  roof  timbers,  where  the 
musicians  spread  merriment,  and  where  everything 
she  loved  was,  then  she  felt  that  she  could  not  go 
into  slavery.  Not  even  for  Tonne's  sake  could  she 
do  it.  She  saw  his  pale  face  within  in  the  house, 
and  she  asked  herself  with  a  contraction  of  the  heart 
if  he  was  worth  the  sacrifice  of  everything  for  his 
sake. 

In  the  cottage  the  people  had  started  a  new  dance. 
They  arranged  themselves  in  a  long  line,  took  each 
other  by  the  hand,  and  with  a  wild,  strong  young 
man  at  the  head,  they  rushed  forward  at  dizzy  speed. 
The  leader  drew  them  through  the  open  door  out 
on  to  the  moonlit  heath.  They  stormed  by  Jofrid, 
panting  and  wild,  stumbling  against  stones,  falling 
into  the  heather,  making  wide  rings  round  the 
house,  circling  about  the  heaps  of  stones.  The  last 
of  the  line  called  to  Jofrid  and  stretched  out  his 
hand  to  her.  She  seized  it  and  ran  too. 

It  was  not  a  dance,  only  a  mad  rush;  but  there 
was  pleasure  in  it,  audacity  and  the  joy  of  living. 
The  rings  became  bolder,  the  cries  sounded  louder, 
the  laughter  more  boisterous.  From  cairn  to  cairn, 
as  they  lay  scattered  over  the  heath,  wound  the  line 
of  dancers  If  any  one  fell  in  the  wild  swinging, 


94  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

he  was  dragged  up,  the  slow  ones  were  driven  on- 
ward; the  musicians  stood  in  the  doorway  and 
played  the  faster.  There  was  no  time  to  rest,  to 
think,  nor  to  look  about.  The  dance  went  on  at 
always  madder  speed  over  the  yielding  moss  and 
slippery  rocks. 

During  all  this  Jofrid  felt  more  and  more  clearly 
that  she  wished  to  keep  her  freedom,  that  she  would 
rather  die  than  lose  it.  She  saw  that  she  could  not 
follow  Tonne.  She  thought  of  running  away,  of 
hurrying  into  the  wood  and  never  coming  back. 

They  had  circled  about  all  the  cairns  except  that 
of  King  Atle.  Jofrid  saw  that  they  were  now  turn- 
ing towards  it  and  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
stone  man.  Then  she  saw  how  his  giant  arms  were 
stretched  towards  the  rushing  dancers.  She  screamed 
aloud,  but  she  was  answered  by  loud  laughter. 
She  wished  to  stop,  but  a  strong  grasp  drew  her 
on.  She  saw  him  snatch  at  those  hurrying  by,  but 
they  were  so  quick  that  the  heavy  arms  could  not 
reach  any  of  them.  It  was  incomprehensible  to  her 
that  no  one  saw  him.  The  agony  of  death  came 
over  her.  She  thought  that  he  would  reach  her. 
It  was  for  her  that  he  had  lain  in  wait  for  many 
years.  With  the  others  it  was  only  play.  It  was  she 
whom  he  would  seize  at  last. 

Her  turn  came  to  rush  by  King  Atle.  She  saw 
how  he  raised  himself  and  bent  for  a  spring  to  be 
sure  of  the  matter  and  catch  her.  In  her  extreme 
need  she  felt  that  if  she  only  could  decide  to  give 
in  the  next  day,  he  would  not  have  the  power  to 
catch  her,  but  she  could  not.  —  She  came  last,  and 
she  was  swung  so  violently  that  she  was  more 
dragged  and  jerked  forward  than  running  herself, 


THE  KINGS  GRAVE  95 

and  it  was  hard  for  her  to  keep  from  falling.  And 
although  she  passed  at  lightning  speed,  the  old 
warrior  was  too  quick  for  her.  The  heavy  arms 
sank  down  over  her,  the  stone  hands  seized  her,  she 
was  drawn  into  the  silvery  harness  of  that  breast. 
The  agony  of  death  took  more  and  more  hold  of  her, 
but  she  knew  to  the  very  last  that  it  was  because 
she  had  not  been  able  to  conquer  the  stone  king  in 
her  own  heart  that  Atle  had  power  over  her. 

It  was  the  end  of  the  dancing  and  merriment. 
J  of  rid  lay  dying.  In  the  violence  of  their  mad  rout, 
she  had  been  thrown  against  the  king's  cairn  and 
received  her  death-blow  on  its  stones. 


THE    OUTLAWS 


THE   OUTLAWS 

A  PEASANT  who  had  murdered  a  monk  took  to 
the  woods  and  was  made  an  outlaw.  He  found 
there  before  him  in  the  wilderness  another  outlaw, 
a  fisherman  from  the  outermost  islands,  who  had 
been  accused  of  stealing  a  herring  net.  They  joined 
together,  lived  in  a  cave,  set  snares,  sharpened 
darts,  baked  bread  on  a  granite  rock  and  guarded  one 
another's  lives.  The  peasant  never  left  the  woods, 
but  the  fisherman,  who  had  not  committed  such  an 
abominable  crime,  sometimes  loaded  game  on  his 
shoulders  and  stole  down  among  men.  There  he 
got  in  exchange  for  black-cocks,  for  long-eared  hares 
and  fine-limbed  red  deer,  milk  and  butter,  arrow- 
heads and  clothes.  These  helped  the  outlaws  to 
sustain  life. 

The  cave  where  they  lived  was  dug  in  the  side  of 
a  hill.  Broad  stones  and  thorny  sloe-bushes  hid  the 
entrance.  Above  it  stood  a  thick  growing  pine-tree. 
At  its  roots  was  the  vent-hole  of  the  cave.  The 
rising  smoke  filtered  through  the  tree's  thick 
branches  and  vanished  into  space.  The  men  used 
to  go  to  and  from  their  dwelling-place,  wading  in 
the  mountain  stream,  which  ran  down  the  hill.  No 
one  looked  for  their  tracks  under  the  merry,  bub- 
bling water. 

At  first  they  were  hunted  like  wild  beasts.  The 
peasants  gathered  as  if  for  a  chase  of  bear  or  wolf. 


100  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

The  wood  was  surrounded  by  men  with  bows  and 
arrows.  Men  with  spears  went  through  it  and  left 
no  dark  crevice,  no  bushy  thicket  unexplored.  While 
the  noisy  battue  hunted  through  the  wood,  the  out- 
laws lay  in  their  dark  hole,  listening  breathlessly, 
panting  with  terror.  The  fisherman  held  out  a 
whole  day,  but  he  who  had  murdered  was  driven  by 
unbearable  fear  out  into  the  open,  where  he  could 
see  his  enemy.  He  was  seen  and  hunted,  but  it 
seemed  to  him  seven  times  better  than  to  lie  still  in 
helpless  inactivity.  He  fled  from  his  pursuers,  slid 
down  precipices,  sprang  over  streams,  climbed  up 
perpendicular  mountain  walls.  All  latent  strength 
and  dexterity  in  him  was  called  forth  by  the  excite- 
ment of  danger.  His  body  became  elastic  like  a 
steel  spring,  his  foot  made  no  false  step,  his  hand 
never  lost  its  hold,  eye  and  ear  were  twice  as  sharp 
as  usual.  He  understood  what  the  leaves  whispered 
and  the  rocks  warned.  When  he  had  climbed  up  a 
precipice,  he  turned  towards  his  pursuers,  sending 
them  gibes  in  biting  rhyme.  When  the  whistling 
darts  whizzed  by  him,  he  caught  them,  swift  as 
lightning,  and  hurled  them  down  on  his  enemies. 
As  he  forced  his  way  through  whipping  branches, 
something  within  him  sang  a  song  of  triumph. 

The  bald  mountain  ridge  ran  through  the  wood 
and  alone  on  its  summit  stood  a  lofty  fir.  The  red- 
brown  trunk  was  bare,  but  in  the  branching  top 
rocked  an  eagle's  nest.  The  fugitive  was  now  so 
audaciously  bold  that  he  climbed  up  there,  while 
his  pursuers  looked  for  him  on  the  wooded  slopes. 
There  he  sat  twisting  the  young  eaglets'  necks, 
while  the  hunt  passed  by  far  below  him.  The  male 
and  female  eagle,  longing  for  revenge,  swooped 


THE   OUTLAWS  IOI 

down  on  the  ravisher.  They  fluttered  before  his 
face,  they  struck  with  their  beaks  at  his  eyes,  they 
beat  him  with  their  wings  and  tore  with  their  claws 
bleeding  weals  in  his  weather-beaten  skin.  Laugh- 
ing, he  fought  with  them.  Standing  upright  in  the 
shaking  nest,  he  cut  at  them  with  his  sharp  knife 
and  forgot  in  the  pleasure  of  the  play  his  danger 
and  his  pursuers.  When  he  found  time  to  look  for 
them,  they  had  gone  by  to  some  other  part  of  the 
forest.  No  one  had  thought  to  look  for  their  prey 
on  the  bald  mountain-ridge.  No  one  had  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  clouds  to  see  him  practising  boyish 
tricks  and  sleep-walking  feats  while  his  life  was  in 
the  greatest  danger. 

The  man  trembled  when  he  found  that  he  was 
saved.  With  shaking  hands  he  caught  at  a  support, 
giddy  he  measured  the  height  to  which  he  had 
climbed.  And  moaning  with  the  fear  of  falling, 
afraid  of  the  birds,  afraid  of  being  seen,  afraid  of 
everything,  he  slid  down  the  trunk.  He  laid  him- 
self down  on  the  ground,  so  as  not  to  be  seen,  and 
dragged  himself  forward  over  the  rocks  until  the 
underbrush  covered  him.  There  he  hid  himself 
under  the  young  pine-tree's  tangled  branches. 
Weak  and  powerless,  he  sank  down  on  the  moss. 
A  single  man  could  have  captured  him. 

Tord  was  the  fisherman's  name.  He  was  not  more 
than  sixteen  years  old,  but  strong  and  bold.  He 
had  already  lived  a  year  in  the  woods. 

The  peasant's  name  was  Berg,  with  the  surname 
Rese.  He  was  the  tallest  and  the  strongest  man  in 
the  whole  district,  and  moreover  handsome  and 
well-built.  He  was  broad  in  the  shoulders  and 


102  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

slender  in  the  waist.  His  hands  were  as  well  shaped 
as  if  he  had  never  done  any  hard  work.  His  hair 
was  brown  and  his  skin  fair.  After  he  had  been 
some  time  in  the  woods  he  acquired  in  all  ways  a 
more  formidable  appearance.  His  eyes  became 
piercing,  his  eyebrows  grew  bushy,  and  the  muscles 
which  knitted  them  lay  finger  thick  above  his  nose. 
It  showed  now  more  plainly  than  before  how  the 
upper  part  of  his  athlete's  brow  projected  over  the 
lower.  His  lips  closed  more  firmly  than  of  old,  his 
whole  face  was  thinner,  the  hollows  at  the  temples 
grew  very  deep,  and  his  powerful  jaw  was  much 
more  prominent.  His  body  was  less  well  filled  out 
but  his  muscles  were  as  hard  as  steel.  His  hair 
grew  suddenly  gray. 

Young  Tord  could  never  weary  of  looking  at  this 
man.  He  had  never  before  seen  anything  so  beau- 
tiful and  powerful.  In  his  imagination  he  stood 
high  as  the  forest,  strong  as  the  sea.  He  served 
him  as  a  master  and  worshipped  him  as  a  god.  It 
was  a  matter  of  course  that  Tord  should  carry  the 
hunting  spears,  drag  home  the  game,  fetch  the  water 
and  build  the  fire.  Berg  Rese  accepted  all  his  ser- 
vices, but  almost  never  gave  him  a  friendly  word. 
He  despised  him  because  he  was  a  thief. 

The  outlaws  did  not  lead  a  robber's  or  brigand's 
life;  they  supported  themselves  by  hunting  and 
fishing.  If  Berg  Rese  had  not  murdered  a  holy 
man,  the  peasants  would  soon  have  ceased  to  pursue 
him  and  have  left  him  in  peace  in  the  mountains. 
But  they  feared  great  disaster  to  the  district,  because 
he  who  had  raised  his  hand  against  the  servant  of 
God  was  still  unpunished.  When  Tord  came  down 
to  the  valley  with  game,  they  offered  him  riches 


THE   OUTLAWS  103 

and  pardon  for  his  own  crime  if  he  would  show  them 
the  way  to  Berg  Rese's  hole,  so  that  they  might  take 
him  while  he  slept.  But  the  boy  always  refused; 
and  if  any  one  tried  to  sneak  after  him  up  to  the 
wood,  he  led  him  so  cleverly  astray  that  he  gave  up 
the  pursuit. 

Once  Berg  asked  him  if  the  peasants  had  not 
tried  to  tempt  him  to  betray  him,  and  when  he 
heard  what  they  had  offered  him  as  a  reward,  he  said 
scornfully  that  Tord  had  been  foolish  not  to  accept 
such  a  proposal. 

Then  Tord  looked  at  him  with  a  glance,  the  like 
of  which  Berg  Rese  had  never  before  seen.  Never 
had  any  beautiful  woman  in  his  youth,  never  had  his 
wife  or  child  looked  so  at  him.  "You  are  my  lord, 
my  elected  master,"  said  the  glance.  "Know  that 
you  may  strike  me  and  abuse  me  as  you  will,  I  am 
faithful  notwithstanding. " 

After  that  Berg  Rese  paid  more  attention  to  the 
boy  and  noticed  that  he  was  bold  to  act  but  timid  to 
speak.  He  had  no  fear  of  death.  When  the  ponds 
were  first  frozen,  or  when  the  bogs  were  most 
dangerous  in  the  spring,  when  the  quagmires  were 
hidden  under  richly  flowering  grasses  and  cloud- 
berry, he  took  his  way  over  them  by  choice.  He 
seemed  to  feel  the  need  of  exposing  himself  to 
danger  as  a  compensation  for  the  storms  and  terrors 
of  the  ocean,  which  he  had  no  longer  to  meet.  At 
night  he  was  afraid  in  the  woods,  and  even  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  the  darkest  thickets  or  the  wide- 
stretching  roots  of  a  fallen  pine  could  frighten  him. 
But  when  Berg  Rese  asked  him  about  it,  he  was  too 
shy  to  even  answer. 

Tord  did  not  sleep  near  the  fire,  far  in  in  the  cave, 


104  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

on  the  bed  which  was  made  soft  with  moss  and  warm 
with  skins,  but  every  night,  when  Berg  had  fallen 
asleep,  he  crept  out  to  the  entrance  and  lay  there  on 
a  rock.  Berg  discovered  this,  and  although  he  well 
understood  the  reason,  he  asked  what  it  meant. 
Tord  would  not  explain.  To  escape  any  more  ques- 
tions, he  did  not  lie  at  the  door  for  two  nights,  but 
then  he  returned  to  his  post. 

One  night,  when  the  drifting  snow  whirled  about 
the  forest  tops  and  drove  into  the  thickest  under- 
brush, the  driving  snowflakes  found  their  way  into 
the  outlaws'  cave.  Tord,  who  lay  just  inside  the 
entrance,  was,  when  he  waked  in  the  morning,  cov- 
ered by  a  melting  snowdrift.  A  few  days  later  he 
fell  ill.  His  lungs  wheezed,  and  when  they  were 
expanded  to  take  in  air,  he  felt  excruciating  pain. 
He  kept  up  as  long  as  his  strength  held  out,  but 
when  one  evening  he  leaned  down  to  blow  the  fire, 
he  fell  over  and  remained  lying. 

Berg  Rese  came  to  him  and  told  him  to  go  to  his 
bed.  Tord  moaned  with  pain  and  could  not  raise 
himself.  Berg  then  thrust  his  arms  under  him  and 
carried  him  there.  But  he  felt  as  if  he  had  got  hold 
of  a  slimy  snake;  he  had  a  taste  in  the  mouth  as  if 
he  had  eaten  the  unholy  horseflesh,  it  was  so  odious 
to  him  to  touch  the  miserable  thief. 

He  laid  his  own  big  bearskin  over  him  and  gave 
him  water,  more  he  could  not  do.  Nor  was  it  any- 
thing dangerous.  Tord  was  soon  well  again.  But 
through  Berg's  being  obliged  to  do  his  tasks  and  to 
be  his  servant,  they  had  come  nearer  to  one  another. 
Tord  dared  to  talk  to  him  when  he  sat  in  the  cave  in 
the  evening  and  cut  arrow  shafts. 

"You    are    of  a   good   race,    Berg,"    said   Tord. 


THE   OUTLAWS  105 

"  Your  kinsmen  are  the  richest  in  the  valley.  Your 
ancestors  have  served  with  kings  and  fought  in  their 
castles." 

"  They  have  oftener  fought  with  bands  of  rebels 
and  done  the  kings  great  injury,"  replied  Berg  Rese. 

"Your  ancestors  gave  great  feasts  at  Christmas, 
and  so  did  you,  when  you  were  at  home.  Hundreds 
of  men  and  women  could  find  a  place  to  sit  in  your 
big  house,  which  was  already  built  before  Saint 
Olof  first  gave  the  baptism  here  in  Viken.  You 
owned  old  silver  vessels  and  great  drinking-horns, 
which  passed  from  man  to  man,  filled  with  mead." 

Again  Berg  Rese  had  to  look  at  the  boy.  He 
sat  up  with  his  legs  hanging  out  of  the  bed  and  his 
head  resting  on  his  hands,  with  which  he  at  the 
same  time  held  back  the  wild  masses  of  hair  which 
would  fall  over  his  eyes.  His  face  had  become  pale 
and  delicate  from  the  ravages  of  sickness.  In  his 
eyes  fever  still  burned.  He  smiled  at  the  pictures 
he  conjured  up:  at  the  adorned  house,  at  the  silver 
vessels,  at  the  guests  in  gala  array  and  at  Berg 
Rese,  sitting  in  the  seat  of  honor  in  the  hall  of  his 
ancestors.  The  peasant  thought  that  no  one  had 
ever  looked  at  him  with  such  shining,  admiring 
eyes,  or  thought  him  so  magnificent,  arrayed  in  his 
festival  clothes,  as  that  boy  thought  him  in  the  torn 
skin  dress. 

He  was  both  touched  and  provoked.  That  mis- 
erable thief  had  no  right  to  admire  him. 

"  Were  there  no  feasts  in  your  house  ?  "  he  asked. 

Tord  laughed.  "Out  there  on  the  rocks  with 
father  and  mother !  Father  is  a  wrecker  and  mother 
is  a  witch.  No  one  will  come  to  us." 

"Is  your  mother  a  witch? " 


106  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

"  She  is, "  answered  Tord,  quite  untroubled  "  In 
stormy  weather  she  rides  out  on  a  seal  to  meet  the 
ships  over  which  the  waves  are  washing,  and  those 
who  are  carried  overboard  are  hers. " 

"What  does  she  do  with  them?  "  asked  Berg. 

"  Oh,  a  witch  always  needs  corpses.  She  makes 
ointments  out  of  them,  or  perhaps  she  eats  them. 
On  moonlight  nights  she  sits  in  the  surf,  where  it 
is  whitest,  and  the  spray  dashes  over  her.  They 
say  that  she  sits  and  searches  for  shipwrecked  chil- 
dren's fingers  and  eyes." 

"That  is  awful,"  said  Berg. 

The  boy  answered  with  infinite  assurance :  "  That 
would  be  awful  in  others,  but  not  in  witches.  They 
have  to  do  so. " 

Berg  Rese  found  that  he  had  here  come  upon  a 
new  way  of  regarding  the  world  and  things. 

"  Do  thieves  have  to  steal,  as  witches  have  to  use 
witchcraft?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  answered  the  boy;  "every  one 
has  to  do  what  he  is  destined  to  do. "  But  then  he 
added,  with  a  cautious  smile:  "There  are  thieves 
also  who  have  never  stolen." 

"  Say  out  what  you  mean,"  said  Berg. 

The  boy  continued  with  his  mysterious  smile, 
proud  at  being  an  unsolvable  riddle:  "It  is  like 
speaking  of  birds  who  do  not  fly,  to  talk  of  thieves 
who  do  not  steal." 

Berg  Rese  pretended  to  be  stupid  in  order  to 
find  out  what  he  wanted.  "  No  one  can  be  called  a 
thief  without  having  stolen,"  he  said. 

"No;  but,"  said  the  boy,  and  pressed  his  lips 
together  as  if  to  keep  in  the  words,  "  but  if  some  one 
had  a  father  who  stole,"  he  hinted  after  a  while. 


THE  OUTLAWS  IQJ 

"One  inherits  money  and  lands,"  replied  Berg 
Rese,  "but  no  one  bears  the  name  of  thief  if  he  has 
not  himself  earned  it." 

Tord  laughed  quietly.  "  But  if  somebody  has  a 
mother  who  begs  and  prays  him  to  take  his  father's 
crime  on  him.  But  if  such  a  one  cheats  the  hang- 
man and  escapes  to  the  woods.  But  if  some  one  is 
made  an  outlaw  for  a  fish-net  which  he  has  never 
seen." 

Berg  Rese  struck  the  stone  table  with  his  clenched 
fist.  He  was  angry.  This  fair  young  man  had 
thrown  away  his  whole  life.  He  could  never  win 
love,  nor  riches,  nor  esteem  after  that.  The  wretched 
striving  for  food  and  clothes  was  all  which  was  left 
him.  And  the  fool  had  let  him,  Berg  Rese,  go  on 
despising  one  who  was  innocent.  He  rebuked  him 
with  stern  words,  but  Tord  was  not  even  as  afraid  as 
a  sick  child  is  of  its  mother,  when  she  chides  it 
because  it  has  caught  cold  by  wading  in  the  spring 
brooks. 

On  one  of  the  broad,  wooded  mountains  lay  a  dark 
tarn.  It  was  square,  with  as  straight  shores  and  as 
sharp  corners  as  if  it  had  been  cut  by  the  hand  of 
man.  On  three  sides  it  was  surrounded  by  steep 
cliffs,  on  which  pines  clung  with  roots  as  thick  as  a 
man's  arm.  Down  by  the  pool,  where  the  earth  had 
been  gradually  washed  away,  their  roots  stood  up 
out  of  the  water,  bare  and  crooked  and  wonderfully 
twisted  about  one  another.  It  was  like  an  infinite 
number  of  serpents  which  had  wanted  all  at  the 
same  time  to  crawl  up  out  of  the  pool  but  had  got 
entangled  in  one  another  and  been  held  fast.  Or  it 
was  like  a  mass  of  blackened  skeletons  of  drowned 


108  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

giants  which  the  pool  wanted  to  throw  up  on  the 
land.  Arms  and  legs  writhed  about  one  another, 
the  long  fingers  dug  deep  into  the  very  cliff  to  get  a 
hold,  the  mighty  ribs  formed  arches,  which  held  up 
primeval  trees.  It  had  happened,  however,  that  the 
iron  arms,  the  steel-like  fingers  with  which  the 
pines  held  themselves  fast,  had  given  way,  and  a 
pine  had  been  borne  by  a  mighty  north  wind  from 
the  top  of  the  cliff  down  into  the  pool.  It  had  bur- 
rowed deep  down  into  the  muddy  bottom  with  its 
top  and  now  stood  there.  The  smaller  fish  had  a 
good  place  of  refuge  among  its  branches,  but  the 
roots  stuck  up  above  the  water  like  a  many-armed 
monster  and  contributed  to  make  the  pool  awful  and 
terrifying. 

On  the  tarn's  fourth  side  the  cliff  sank  down. 
There  a  little  foaming  stream  carried  away  its 
waters.  Before  this  stream  could  find  the  only  pos- 
sible way,  it  had  tried  to  get  out  between  stones 
and  tufts,  and  had  by  so  doing  made  a  little  world  of 
islands,  some  no  bigger  than  a  little  hillock,  others 
covered  with  trees. 

Here  where  the  encircling  cliffs  did  not  shut  out 
all  the  sun,  leafy  trees  flourished.  Here  stood 
thirsty,  gray-green  alders  and  smooth-leaved  wil- 
lows. The  birch-tree  grew  there  as  it  does  every- 
where where  it  is  trying  to  crowd  out  the  pine 
woods,  and  the  wild  cherry  and  the  mountain  ash, 
those  two  which  edge  the  forest  pastures,  filling 
them  with  fragrance  and  adorning  them  with  beauty. 

Here  at  the  outlet  there  was  a  forest  of  reeds  as 
high  as  a  man,  which  made  the  sunlight  fall  green 
on  the  water  just  as  it  falls  on  the  moss  in  the 
real  forest.  Among  the  reeds  there  were  open 


THE   OUTLAWS  109 

places;  small,  round  pools,  and  water-lilies  were 
floating  there.  The  tall  stalks  looked  down  with 
mild  seriousness  on  those  sensitive  beauties,  who 
discontentedly  shut  their  white  petals  and  yellow 
stamens  in  a  hard,  leather-like  sheath  as  soon  as  the 
sun  ceased  to  show  itself. 

One  sunshiny  day  the  outlaws  came  to  this  tarn 
to  fish.  They  waded  out  to  a  couple  of  big 
stones  in  the  midst  of  the  reed  forest  and  sat 
there  and  threw  out  bait  for  the  big,  green-striped 
pickerel  that  lay  and  slept  near  the  surface  of  the 
water. 

These  men,  who  were  always  wandering  in  the 
woods  and  the  mountains,  had,  without  their  know- 
ing it  themselves,  come  under  nature's  rule  as  much 
as  the  plants  and  the  animals.  When  the  sun  shone, 
they  were  open-hearted  and  brave,  but  in  the  even- 
ing, as  soon  as  the  sun  had  disappeared,  they  became 
silent;  and  the  night,  which  seemed  to  them  much 
greater  and  more  powerful  than  the  day,  made  them 
anxious  and  helpless.  Now  the  green  light,  which 
slanted  in  between  the  rushes  and  colored  the  water 
with  brown  and  dark-green  streaked  with  gold, 
affected  their  mood  until  they  were  ready  for  any 
miracle.  Every  outlook  was  shut  off.  Sometimes 
the  reeds  rocked  in  an  imperceptible  wind,  their 
stalks  rustled,  and  the  long,  ribbon-like  leaves  flut- 
tered against  their  faces.  They  sat  in  gray  skins 
on  the  gray  stones.  The  shadows  in  the  skins  re- 
peated the  shadows  of  the  weather-beaten,  mossy 
stone.  Each  saw  his  companion  in  his  silence  and 
immovability  change  into  a  stone  image.  But  in 
among  the  rushes  swam  mighty  fishes  with  rainbow- 
colored  backs.  When  the  men  threw  out  their  hooks 


no  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

and  saw  the  circles  spreading  among  the  reeds,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  motion  grew  stronger  and  stronger, 
until  they  perceived  that  it  was  not  caused  only  by 
their  cast.  A  sea-nymph,  half  human,  half  a  shin- 
ing fish,  lay  and  slept  on  the  surface  of  the  water. 
She  lay  on  her  back  with  her  whole  body  under 
water.  The  waves  so  nearly  covered  her  that  they 
had  not  noticed  her  before.  It  was  her  breathing 
that  caused  the  motion  of  the  waves.  But  there  was 
nothing  strange  in  her  lying  there,  and  when  the 
next  instant  she  was  gone,  they  were  not  sure  that 
she  had  not  been  only  an  illusion. 

The  green  light  entered  through  the  eyes  into  the 
brain  like  a  gentle  intoxication.  The  men  sat  and 
stared  with  dulled  thoughts,  seeing  visions  among 
the  reeds,  of  which  they  did  not  dare  to  tell  one 
another.  Their  catch  was  poor.  The  day  was 
devoted  to  dreams  and  apparitions. 

The  stroke  of  oars  was  heard  among  the  rushes, 
and  they  started  up  as  from  sleep.  The  next  moment 
a  flat-bottomed  boat  appeared,  heavy,  hollowed  out 
with  no  skill  and  with  oars  as  small  as  sticks.  A 
young  girl,  who  had  been  picking  water-lilies,  rowed 
it.  She  had  dark-brown  hair,  gathered  in  great 
braids,  and  big  dark  eyes ;  otherwise  she  was  strangely 
pale.  But  her  paleness  toned  to  pink  and  not  to 
gray.  Her  cheeks  had  no  higher  color  than  the 
rest  of  her  face,  the  lips  had  hardly  enough.  She 
wore  a  white  linen  shirt  and  a  leather  belt  with  a 
gold  buckle.  Her  skirt  was  blue  with  a  red  hem. 
She  rowed  by  the  outlaws  without  seeing  them. 
They  kept  breathlessly  still,  but  not  for  fear  of 
being  seen,  but  only  to  be  able  to  really  see  her. 
As  soon  as  she  had  gone  they  were  as  if  changed 


THE   OUTLAWS  III 

from  stone  images  to  living  beings.  Smiling,  they 
looked  at  one  another. 

"  She  was  white  like  the  water-lilies,"  said  one. 
"Her  eyes  were  as  dark  as  the  water  there  under 
the  pine-roots." 

They  were  so  excited  that  they  wanted  to  laugh, 
really  laugh  as  no  one  had  ever  laughed  by  that 
pool,  till  the  cliffs  thundered  with  echoes  and  the 
roots  of  the  pines  loosened  with  fright. 

"Did  you  think  she  was  pretty?"  asked  Berg 
Rese. 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  know,  I  saw  her  for  such  a  short 
time.  Perhaps  she  was. " 

"I  do  not  believe  you  dared  to  look  at  her.  You 
thought  that  it  was  a  mermaid." 

And  they  were  again  shaken  by  the  same  extrava- 
gant merriment. 

lord  had  once  as  a  child  seen  a  drowned  man. 
He  had  found  the  body  on  the  shore  on  a  summer 
day  and  had  not  been  at  all  afraid,  but  at  night  he 
had  dreamed  terrible  dreams.  He  saw  a  sea,  where 
every  wave  rolled  a  dead  man  to  his  feet.  He  saw, 
too,  that  all  the  islands  were  covered  with  drowned 
men,  who  were  dead  and  belonged  to  the  sea,  but 
who  still  could  speak  and  move  and  threaten  him 
with  withered  white  hands. 

It  was  so  with  him  now.  The  girl  whom  he  had 
seen  among  the  rushes  came  back  in  his  dreams. 
He  met  her  out  in  the  open  pool,  where  the  sun- 
light fell  even  greener  than  among  the  rushes,  and 
he  had  time  to  see  that  she  was  beautiful.  He 
dreamed  that  he  had  crept  up  on  the  big  pine  root  in 
the  middle  of  the  dark  tarn,  but  the  pine  swayed 


112  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

and  rocked  so  that  sometimes  he  was  quite  under 
water.  Then  she  came  forward  on  the  little  islands. 
She  stood  under  the  red  mountain  ashes  and  laughed 
at  him.  In  the  last  dream-vision  he  had  come  so 
far  that  she  kissed  him.  It  was  already  morning, 
and  he  heard  that  Berg  Rese  had  got  up,  but  he 
obstinately  shut  his  eyes  to  be  able  to  go  on  with 
his  dream.  When  he  awoke,  he  was  as  though 
dizzy  and  stunned  by  what  had  happened  to  him  in 
the  night.  He  thought  much  more  now  of  the  girl 
than  he  had  done  the  day  before. 

Towards  night  he  happened  to  ask  Berg  Rese  if 
he  knew  her  name. 

Berg  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  "  Perhaps  it  is 
best  for  you  to  hear  it,"  he  said.  "She  is  Unu. 
We  are  cousins." 

Tord  then  knew  that  it  was  for  that  pale  girl's 
sake  Berg  Rese  wandered  an  outlaw  in  forest  and 
mountain.  Tord  tried  to  remember  what  he  knew 
of  her.  Unu  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  peasant. 
Her  mother  was  dead,  so  that  she  managed  her 
father's  house.  This  she  liked,  for  she  was  fond  of 
her  own  way  and  she  had  no  wish  to  be  married. 

Unu  and  Berg  Rese  were  the  children  of  brothers, 
and  it  had  long  been  said  that  Berg  preferred  to  sit 
with  Unu  and  her  maids  and  jest  with  them  than  to 
work  on  his  own  lands.  When  the  great  Christmas 
feast  was  celebrated  at  his  house,  his  wife  had  invited 
a  monk  from  Draksmark,  for  she  wanted  him  to 
remonstrate  with  Berg,  because  he  was  forgetting 
her  for  another  woman.  This  monk  was  hateful  to 
Berg  and  to  many  on  account  of  his  appearance. 
He  was  very  fat  and  quite  white.  The  ring  of  hair 
about  his  bald  head,  the  eyebrows  above  his  watery 


THE   OUTLAWS  113 

eyes,  his  face,  his  hands  and  his  whole  cloak,  every- 
thing was  white.  Many  found  it  hard  to  endure 
his  looks. 

At  the  banquet  table,  in  the  hearing  of  all  the 
guests,  this  monk  now  said,  for  he  was  fearless  and 
thought  that  his  words  would  have  more  effect  if 
they  were  heard  by  many,  "  People  are  in  the  habit 
of  saying  that  the  cuckoo  is  the  worst  of  birds 
because  he  does  not  rear  his  young  in  his  own  nest, 
but  here  sits  a  man  who  does  not  provide  for  his 
home  and  his  children,  but  seeks  his  pleasure  with 
a  strange  woman.  Him  will  I  call  the  worst  of 
men. "  —  Unu  then  rose  up.  "  That,  Berg,  is  said 
to  you  and  me, "  she  said.  "  Never  have  I  been  so 
insulted,  and  my  father  is  not  here  either."  She 
had  wished  to  go,  but  Berg  sprang  after  her.  "Do 
not  move  ! "  she  said.  "  I  will  never  see  you  again." 
He  caught  up  with  her  in  the  hall  and  asked  her 
what  he  should  do  to  make  her  stay.  She  had 
answered  with  flashing  eyes  that  he  must  know  that 
best  himself.  Then  Berg  went  in  and  killed  the 
monk. 

Berg  and  Tord  were  busy  with  the  same  thoughts, 
for  after  a  while  Berg  said :  "  You  should  have  seen 
her,  Unu,  when  the  white  monk  fell.  The  mistress 
of  the  house  gathered  the  small  children  about  her 
and  cursed  her.  She  turned  their  faces  towards  her, 
that  they  might  forever  remember  her  who  had 
made  their  father  a  murderer.  But  Unu  stood 
calm  and  so  beautiful  that  the  men  trembled.  She 
thanked  me  for  the  deed  and  told  me  to  fly  to  the 
woods.  She  bade  me  not  to  be  robber,  and  not  to  use 
the  knife  until  I  could  do  it  for  an  equally  just  cause. " 

"Your  deed  had  been  to  her  honor,**  said  Tord. 
8 


114  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Berg  Rese  noticed  again  what  had  astonished  him 
before  in  the  boy.  He  was  like  a  heathen,  worse 
than  a  heathen;  he  never  condemned  what  was 
wrong.  He  felt  no  responsibility.  That  which 
must  be,  was.  He  knew  of  God  and  Christ  and  the 
saints,  but  only  by  name,  as  one  knows  the  gods  of 
foreign  lands.  The  ghosts  of  the  rocks  were  his 
gods.  His  mother,  wise  in  witchcraft,  had  taught 
him  to  believe  in  the  spirits  of  the  dead. 

Then  Berg  Rese  undertook  a  task  which  was  as 
foolish  as  to  twist  a  rope  about  his  own  neck.  He 
set  before  those  ignorant  eyes  the  great  God,  the 
Lord  of  justice,  the  Avenger  of  misdeeds,  who  casts 
the  wicked  into  places  of  everlasting  torment.  And 
he  taught  him  to  love  Christ  and  his  mother  and  the 
holy  men  and  women,  who  with  lifted  hands  kneeled 
before  God's  throne  to  avert  the  wrath  of  the  great 
Avenger  from  the  hosts  of  sinners.  He  taught  him 
all  that  men  do  to  appease  God's  wrath.  He  showed 
him  the  crowds  of  pilgrims  making  pilgrimages  to 
holy  places,  the  flight  of  self-torturing  penitents 
and  monks  from  a  worldly  life. 

As  he  spoke,  the  boy  became  more  eager  and  more 
pale,  his  eyes  grew  large  as  if  for  terrible  visions. 
Berg  Rese  wished  to  stop,  but  thoughts  streamed  to 
him,  and  he  went  on  speaking.  The  night  sank 
down  over  them,  the  black  forest  night,  when  the 
owls  hoot.  God  came  so  near  to  them  that  they 
saw  his  throne  darken  the  stars,'  and  the  chastising 
angels  sank  down  to  the  tops  of  the  trees.  And 
under  them  the  fires  of  Hell  flamed  up  to  the  earth's 
crust,  eagerly  licking  that  shaking  place  of  refuge 
for  the  sorrowing  races  of  men. 


THE   OUTLAWS  1 15 

The  autumn  had  come  with  a  heavy  storm,  lord 
went  alone  in  the  woods  to  see  after  the  snares 
and  traps.  Berg  Rese  sat  at  home  to  mend  his 
clothes.  Tord's  way  led  in  a  broad  path  up  a  wooded 
height. 

Every  gust  carried  the  dry  leaves  in  a  rustling 
whirl  up  the  path.  Time  after  time  Tord  thought 
that  some  one  went  behind  him.  He  often  looked 
round.  Sometimes  he  stopped  to  listen,  but  he 
understood  that  it  was  the  leaves  and  the  wind,  and 
went  on.  As  soon  as  he  started  on  again,  he  heard 
some  one  come  dancing  on  silken  foot  up  the  slope. 
Small  feet  came  tripping.  Elves  and  fairies  played 
behind  him.  When  he  turned  round,  there  was  no 
one,  always  no  one.  He  shook  his  fists  at  the 
rustling  leaves  and  went  on. 

They  did  not  grow  silent  for  that,  but  they  took 
another  tone.  They  began  to  hiss  and  to  pant  be- 
hind him.  A  big  viper  came  gliding.  Its  tongue 
dripping  venom  hung  far  out  of  its  mouth,  and  its 
bright  body  shone  against  the  withered  leaves. 
Beside  the  snake  pattered  a  wolf,  a  big,  gaunt  mon- 
ster, who  was  ready  to  seize  fast  in  his  throat  when 
the  snake  had  twisted  about  his  feet  and  bitten  him 
in  the  heel.  Sometimes  they  were  both  silent,  as 
if  to  approach  him  unperceived,  but  they  soon 
betrayed  themselves  by  hissing  and  panting,  and 
sometimes  the  wolf's  claws  rung  against  a  stone. 
Involuntarily  Tord  walked  quicker  and  quicker,  but 
the  creatures  hastened  after  him.  When  he  felt 
that  they  were  only  two  steps  distant  and  were  pre- 
paring to  strike,  he  turned.  There  was  nothing 
there,  and  he  had  known  it  the  whole  time. 

He  sat  down  on  a  stone  to  rest.     Then  the  dry 


Il6  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

leaves  played  about  his  feet  as  if  to  amuse  him. 
All  the  leaves  of  the  forest  were  there :  small,  light 
yellow  birch  leaves,  red  speckled  mountain  ash,  the 
elm's  dry,  dark-brown  leaves,  the  aspen's  tough 
light  red,  and  the  willow's  yellow  green.  Trans- 
formed and  withered,  scarred  and  torn  were  they, 
and  much  unlike  the  downy,  light  green,  delicately 
shaped  leaves,  which  a  few  months  ago  had  rolled 
out  of  their  buds. 

"  Sinners,"  said  the  boy,  "  sinners,  nothing  is  pure 
in  God's  eyes.  The  flame  of  his  wrath  has  already 
reached  you. " 

When  he  resumed  his  wandering,  he  saw  the 
forest  under  him  bend  before  the  storm  like  a  heav- 
ing sea,  but  in  the  path  it  was  calm.  But  he  heard 
what  he  did  not  feel.  The  woods  were  full  of 
voices. 

He  heard  whisperings,  wailing  songs,  coarse 
threats,  thundering  oaths.  There  was  laughter  and 
laments,  there  was  the  noise  of  many  people.  That 
which  hounded  and  pursued,  which  rustled  and 
hissed,  which  seemed  to  be  something  and  still  was 
nothing,  gave  him  wild  thoughts.  He  felt  again 
the  anguish  of  death,  as  when  he  lay  on  the  floor  in 
his  den  and  the  peasants  hunted  him  through  the 
wood.  He  heard  again  the  crashing  of  branches, 
the  people's  heavy  tread,  the  ring  of  weapons,  the 
resounding  cries,  the  wild,  bloodthirsty  noise,  which 
followed  the  crowd. 

But  it  was  not  only  that  which  he  heard  in  the 
storm.  There  was  something  else,  something  still 
more  terrible,  voices  which  he  could  not  interpret, 
a  confusion  of  voices,  which  seemed  to  him  to  speak 
in  foreign  tongues.  He  had  heard  mightier  storms 


THE  OUTLAWS  117 

than  this  whistle  through  the  rigging,  but  never 
before  had  he  heard  the  wind  play  on  such  a  many- 
voiced  harp.  Each  tree  had  its  own  voice;  the  pine 
did  not  murmur  like  the  aspen  nor  the  poplar  like 
the  mountain  ash.  Every  hole  had  its  note,  every 
cliff's  sounding  echo  its  own  ring.  And  the  noise 
of  the  brooks  and  the  cry  of  foxes  mingled  with  the 
marvellous  forest  storm.  But  all  that  he  could 
interpret ;  there  were  other  strange  sounds.  It  was 
those  which  made  him  begin  to  scream  and  scoff  and 
groan  in  emulation  with  the  storm. 

He  had  always  been  afraid  when  he  was  alone  in 
the  darkness  of  the  forest.  He  liked  the  open  sea 
and  the  bare  rocks.  Spirits  and  phantoms  crept 
about  among  the  trees. 

Suddenly  he  heard  who  it  was  who  spoke  in  the 
storm.  It  was  God,  the  great  Avenger,  the  God  of 
justice.  He  was  hunting  him  for  the  sake  of  his 
comrade.  He  demanded  that  he  should  deliver  up 
the  murderer  to  His  vengeance. 

Then  Tord  began  to  speak  in  the  midst  of  the 
storm.  He  told  God  what  he  liad  wished  to  do,  but 
had  not  been  able.  He  had  wished  to  speak  to 
Berg  Rese  and  to  beg  him  to  make  his  peace  with 
God,  but  he  had  been  too  shy.  Bashfulness  had 
made  him  dumb.  "When  I  heard  that  the  earth 
was  ruled  by  a  just  God,"  he  cried,  "I  understood 
that  he  was  a  lost  man.  I  have  lain  and  wept  for 
my  friend  many  long  nights.  I  knew  that  God 
would  find  him  out,  wherever  he  might  hide.  But 
I  could  not  speak,  nor  teach  him  to  understand.  I 
was  speechless,  because  I  loved  him  so  much.  Ask 
not  that  I  shall  speak  to  him,  ask  not  that  the  sea 
shall  rise  up  against  the  mountain." 


Il8  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

He  was  silent,  and  in  the  storm  the  deep  voice, 
which  had  been  the  voice  of  God  for  him,  ceased. 
It  was  suddenly  calm,  with  a  sharp  sun  and  a  splash- 
ing as  of  oars  and  a  gentle  rustle  as  of  stiff  rushes. 
These  sounds  brought  Unu's  image  before  him.  — 
The  outlaw  cannot  have  anything,  not  riches,  nor 
women,  nor  the  esteem  of  men.  —  If  he  should  be- 
tray Berg,  he  would  be  taken  under  the  protection 
of  the  law.  —  But  Unu  must  love  Berg,  after  what 
he  had  done  for  her.  There  was  no  way  out  of  it  all. 

When  the  storm  increased,  he  heard  again  steps 
behind  him  and  sometimes  a  breathless  panting. 
Now  he  did  not  dare  to  look  back,  for  he  knew  that 
the  white  monk  went  behind  him.  He  came  from 
the  feast  at  Berg  Rese's  house,  drenched  with  blood, 
with  a  gaping  axe-wound  in  his  forehead.  And  he 
whispered:  "Denounce  him,  betray  him,  save  his 
soul.  Leave  his  body  to  the  pyre,  that  his  soul  may 
be  spared.  Leave  him  to  the  slow  torture  of  the 
rack,  that  his  soul  may  have  time  to  repent." 

Tord  ran.  All  this  fright  of  what  was  nothing 
in  itself  grew,  when  it  so  continually  played  on  the 
soul,  to  an  unspeakable  terror.  He  wished  to  escape 
from  it  all.  As  he  began  to  run,  again  thundered 
that  deep,  terrible  voice,  which  was  God's.  God 
himself  hunted  him  with  alarms,  that  he  should  give 
up  the  murderer.  Berg  Rese's  crime  seemed  more 
detestable  than  ever  to  him.  An  unarmed  man  had 
been  murdered,  a  man  of  God  pierced  with  shining 
steel.  It  was  like  a  defiance  of  the  Lord  of  the 
world.  And  the  murderer  dared  to  live !  He 
rejoiced  in  the  sun's  light  and  in  the  fruits  of  the 
earth  as  if  the  Almighty's  arm  were  too  short  to 
reach  him. 


THE   OUTLAWS  119 

He  stopped,  clenched  his  fists  and  howled  out  a 
threat.  Then  he  ran  like  a  madman  from  the  wood 
down  to  the  valley. 

Tord  hardly  needed  to  tell  his  errand ;  instantly 
ten  peasants  were  ready  to  follow  him.  It  was 
decided  that  Tord  should  go  alone  up  to  the  cave,  so 
that  Berg's  suspicions  should  not  be  aroused.  But 
where  he  went  he  should  scatter  peas,  so  that  the 
peasants  could  find  the  way. 

When  Tord  came  to  the  cave,  the  outlaw  sat  on 
the  stone  bench  and  sewed.  The  fire  gave  hardly 
any  light,  and  the  work  seemed  to  go  badly.  The 
boy's  heart  swelled  with  pity.  The  splendid  Berg 
Rese  seemed  to  him  poor  and  unhappy.  And  the 
only  thing  he  possessed,  his  life,  should  be  taken 
from  him.  Tord  began  to  weep. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Berg.  "Are you  ill?  Have 
you  been  frightened  ?  " 

Then  for  the  first  time  Tord  spoke  of  his  fear. 
"  It  was  terrible  in  the  wood.  I  heard  ghosts  and 
saw  spectres.  I  saw  white  monks. " 

"'Sdeath,  boy!" 

"They  crowded  round  me  all  the  way  up  Broad 
mountain.  I  ran,  but  they  followed  after  and  sang. 
Can  I  never  be  rid  of  the  sound  ?  What  have  I  to 
do  with  them  ?  I  think  that  they  could  go  to  one 
who  needed  it  more." 

"Are  you  mad  to-night,  Tord?" 

Tord  talked,  hardly  knowing  what  words  he  used. 
He  was  free  from  all  shyness.  The  words  streamed 
from  his  lips. 

"They  are  all  white  monks,  white,  pale  as  death. 
They  all  have  blood  on  their  cloaks.  They  drag 


120  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

their  hoods  down  over  their  brows,  but  still  the 
wound  shines  from  under;  the  big,  red,  gaping 
wound  from  the  blow  of  the  axe." 

"The  big,  red,  gaping  wound  from  the  blow  of 
the  axe?" 

"Is  it  I  who  perhaps  have  struck  it?  Why  shall 
I  see  it  ? " 

"The  saints  only  know,  Tord,"  said  Berg  Rese, 
pale  and  with  terrible  earnestness,  "  what  it  means 
that  you  see  a  wound  from  an  axe.  I  killed  the 
monk  with  a  couple  of  knife -thrusts. " 

Tord  stood  trembling  before  Berg  and  wrung  his 
hands.  "  They  demand  you  of  me !  They  want  to 
force  me  to  betray  you ! " 

"Who?    The  monks?" 

"  They,  yes,  the  monks.  They  show  me  visions. 
They  show  me  her,  Unu.  They  show  me  the  shin- 
ing, 'sunny  sea.  They  show  me  the  fishermen's 
camping-ground,  where  there  is  dancing  and  merry- 
making. I  close  my  eyes,  but  still  I  see.  '  Leave 
me  in  peace, '  I  say.  '  My  friend  has  murdered,  but 
he  is  not  bad.  Let  me  be,  and  I  will  talk  to  him, 
so  that  he  repents  and  atones.  He  shall  confess  his 
sin  and  go  to  Christ's  grave.  We  will  both  go 
together  to  the  places  which  are  so  holy  that  all  sin 
is  taken  away  from  him  who  draws  near  them. ' ' 

"  What  do  the  monks  answer  ? "  asked  Berg. 
"  They  want  to  have  me  saved.  They  want  to  have 
me  on  the  rack  and  wheel. " 

"Shall  I  betray  my  dearest  friend,  I  ask  them," 
continued  Tord.  "  He  is  my  world.  He  has  saved 
me  from  the  bear  that  had  his  paw  on  my  throat. 
We  have  been  cold  together  and  suffered  every  want 
together.  He  has  spread  his  bear-skin  over  me 


THE   OUTLAWS  121 

when  I  was  sick.  I  have  carried  wood  and  water  for 
him;  I  have  watched  over  him  while  he  slept;  I 
have  fooled  his  enemies.  Why  do  they  think  that 
I  am  one  who  will  betray  a  friend?  My  friend  will 
soon  of  his  own  accord  go  to  the  priest  and  confess, 
then  we  will  go  together  to  the  land  of  atonement." 

Berg  listened  earnestly,  his  eyes  sharply  search- 
ing Tord's  face.  "You  shall  go  to  the  priest  and 
tell  him  the  truth,"  he  said.  "You  need  to  be 
among  people." 

"  Does  that  help  me  if  I  go  alone  ?  For  your  sin, 
Death  and  all  his  spectres  follow  me.  Do  you  not 
see  how  I  shudder  at  you?  You  have  lifted  your 
hand  against  God  himself.  No  crime  is  like  yours. 
I  think  that  I  must  rejoice  when  I  see  you  on  rack 
and  wheel.  It  is  well  for  him  who  can  receive  his 
punishment  in  this  world  and  escapes  the  wrath  to 
come.  Why  did  you  tell  me  of  the  just  God  ?  You 
compel  me  to  betray  you.  Save  me  from  that  sin. 
Go  to  the  priest."  And  he  fell  on  his  knees  before 
Berg. 

The  murderer  laid  his  hand  on  his  head  and  looked 
at  him.  He  was  measuring  his  sin  against  his 
friend's  anguish,  and  it  grew  big  and  terrible  before 
his  soul.  He  saw  himself  at  variance  with  the  Will 
which  rules  the  world.  Repentance  entered  his 
heart. 

"Woe  to  me  that  I  have  done  what  I  have  done," 
he  said.  "That  which  awaits  me  is  too  hard  to 
meet  voluntarily.  If  I  give  myself  up  to  the  priests, 
they  will  torture  me  for  hours ;  they  will  roast  me 
with  slow  fires.  And  is  not  this  life  of  misery, 
which  we  lead  in  fear  and  want,  penance  enough? 
Have  I  not  lost  lands  and  home?  Do  I  not  live 


122  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

parted  from  friends  and  everything  which  makes  a 
man's  happiness?  What  more  is  required?" 

When  he  spoke  so,  Tord  sprang  up  wild  with 
terror.  "  Can  you  repent  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Can  my 
words  move  your  heart?  Then  come  instantly! 
How  could  I  believe  that !  Let  us  escape !  There 
is  still  time." 

Berg  Rese  sprang  up,  he  too.  "You  have  done 
it,  then —  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes !  I  have  betrayed  you !  But  come 
quickly !  Come,  as  you  can  repent !  They  will  let 
us  go.  We  shall  escape  them  !  " 

The  murderer  bent  down  to  the  floor,  where  the 
battle-axe  of  his  ancestors  lay  at  his  feet.  "You 
son  of  a  thief ! "  he  said,  hissing  out  the  words,  "  I 
have  trusted  you  and  loved  you." 

But  when  Tord  saw  him  bend  for  the  axe,  he 
knew  that  it  was  now  a  question  of  his  own  life. 
He  snatched  his  own  axe  from  his  belt  and  struck  at 
Berg  before  he  had  time  to  raise  himself.  The  edge 
cut  through  the  whistling  air  and  sank  in  the  bent 
head.  Berg  Rese  fell  head  foremost  to  the  floor,  his 
body  rolled  after.  Blood  and  brains  spouted  out, 
the  axe  fell  from  the  wound.  In  the  matted  hair 
Tord  saw  a  big,  red,  gaping  hole  from  the  blow  of 
an  axe. 

The  peasants  came  rushing  in.  They  rejoiced 
and  praised  the  deed. 

"You  will  win  by  this,"  they  said  to  Tord. 

Tord  looked  down  at  his  hands  as  if  he  saw  there 
the  fetters  with  which  he  had  been  dragged  forward 
to  kill  him  he  loved.  They  were  forged  from  noth- 
ing. Of  the  rushes'  green  light,  of  the  play  of  the 
shadows,  of  the  song  of  the  storm,  of  the  rustling  of 


THE   OUTLAWS  12$ 

the  leaves,  of  dreams  were  they  created.  And  he 
said  aloud:  "God  is  great." 

But  again  the  old  thought  came  to  him.  He  fell 
on  his  knees  beside  the  body  and  put  his  arm  under 
his  head. 

"Do  him  no  harm,"  he  said.  "He  repents;  he 
is  going  to  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  He  is  not  dead, 
he  is  not  a  prisoner.  We  were  just  ready  to  go 
when  he  fell.  The  white  monk  did  not  want  him 
to  repent,  but  God,  the  God  of  justice,  loves 
repentance." 

He  lay  beside  the  body,  talked  to  it,  wept  and 
begged  the  dead  man  to  awake.  The  peasants 
arranged  a  bier.  They  wished  to  carry  the  peasant's 
body  down  to  his  house.  They  had  respect  for  the 
dead  and  spoke  softly  in  his  presence.  When  they 
lifted  him  up  on  the  bier,  Tord  rose,  shook  the  hair 
back  from  his  face,  and  said  with  a  voice  which 
shook  with  sobs,  — 

"  Say  to  Unu,  who  made  Berg  Rese  a  murderer, 
that  he  was  killed  by  Tord  the  fisherman,  whose 
father  is  a  wrecker  and  whose  mother  is  a  witch, 
because  he  taught  him  that  the  foundation  of  the 
world  is  justice." 


THE    LEGEND    OF    REOR 


THE   LEGEND   OF   REOR 

THERE  was  a  man  called  Reor.  He  was  from 
Fuglekarr  in  the  parish  of  Svarteborg,  and 
was  considered  the  best  shot  in  the  county.  He 
was  baptized  when  King  Olof  rooted  out  the  old 
belief,  and  was  ever  afterwards  an  eager  Christian. 
He  was  freeborn,  but  poor;  handsome,  but  not  tall; 
strong,  but  gentle.  He  tamed  young  horses  with 
but  a  look  and  a  word,  and  could  lure  birds  to  him 
with  a  call.  He  dwelt  mostly  in  the  woods,  and 
nature  had  great  power  over  him.  The  growing  of 
the  plants  and  the  budding  of  the  trees,  the  play  of 
the  hares  in  the  forest's  open  places  and  the  fish's 
leap  in  the  calm  lake  at  evening,  the  conflict  of  the 
seasons  and  the  changes  of  the  weather,  these  were 
the  chief  events  in  his  life.  Sorrow  and  joy  he 
found  in  such  things  and  not  in  that  which  happened 
among  men. 

One  day  the  skilful  hunter  met  deep  in  the  thick- 
est forest  an  old  bear  and  killed  him  with  a  single 
shot.  The  great  arrow's  sharp  point  pierced  the 
mighty  heart,  and  he  fell  dead  at  the  hunter's  feet. 
It  was  summer,  and  the  bear's  pelt  was  neither  close 
nor  even,  still  the  archer  drew  it  off,  rolled  it  to- 
gether into  a  hard  bundle,  and  went  on  with  the 
bear-skin  on  his  back. 

He  had  not  wandered  far  before  he  perceived  an 
extraordinarily  strong  smell  of  honey.  It  came 
from  the  little  flowering  plants  that  covered  the 


128  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

ground.  They  grew  on  slender  stalks,  had  light- 
green,  shiny  leaves,  which  were  beautifully  veined, 
and  at  the  top  a  little  spike,  thickly  set  with  white 
flowers.  Their  petals  were  of  the  tiniest,  but  from 
among  them  pushed  up  a  little  brush  of  stamens, 
whose  pollen-filled  heads  trembled  on  white  fila- 
ments. Reor  thought,  as  he  went  among  them, 
that  those  flowers,  which  stood  alone  and  unnoticed 
in  the  darkness  of  the  forest,  were  sending  out  mes- 
sage after  message,  summons  upon  summons.  The 
strong,  sweet  fragrance  of  the  honey  was  their  cry; 
it  spread  the  knowledge  of  their  existence  far  away 
among  the  trees  and  high  up  towards  the  clouds. 
But  there  was  something  melancholy  in  the  heavy 
perfume.  The  flowers  had  filled  their  cups  and 
spread  their  table  in  expectation  of  their  winged 
guests,  but  none  came.  They  pined  to  death  in  the 
deep  loneliness  of  the  dark,  windless  forest  thicket. 
They  seemed  to  wish  to  cry  and  lament  that  the 
beautiful  butterflies  did  not  come  and  visit  them. 
Where  the  flowers  grew  thickest,  he  thought  that 
they  sang  together  a  monotonous  song.  "  Come, 
fair  guests,  come  to-day,  for  to-morrow  we  are  dead, 
to-morrow  we  lie  dead  on  the  dried  leaves." 

Reor  was  permitted  to  see  the  joyous  close  of  the 
flower  adventure.  He  felt  behind  him  a  flutter  as 
of  the  lightest  wind  and  saw  a  white  butterfly  flit- 
ting about  in  the  dimness  between  the  thick  trunks. 
He  flew  hither  and  thither  in  an  uneasy  quest,  as  if 
uncertain  of  the  way.  Nor  was  he  alone ;  butterfly 
after  butterfly  glimmered  in  the  darkness,  until 
at  last  there  was  a  host  of  white-winged  honey 
seekers.  But  the  first  was  the  leader,  and  he  found 
the  flowers,  guided  by  their  fragrance.  After  him 


THE  LEGEND   OF  REOR  129 

the  whole  butterfly  host  came  storming.  It  threw 
itself  down  among  the  longing  flowers,  as  the  con- 
queror throws  himself  on  his  booty.  Like  a  snow- 
fall of  white  wings  it  sank  down  over  them.  And 
there  was  feasting  and  drinking  on  every  flower- 
cluster.  The  woods  were  full  of  silent  rejoicing. 

Reor  went  on,  but  now  the  honey-sweet  fragrance 
seemed  to  follow  him  wherever  he  went.  And  he 
felt  that  in  the  wood  was  hidden  a  longing,  stronger 
than  that  of  the  flowers,  that  something  there  drew 
him  to  itself,  just  as  the  flowers  lured  the  butter- 
flies. He  went  forward  with  a  quiet  joy  in  his 
heart,  as  if  he  was  expecting  a  great,  unknown  hap- 
piness. His  only  fear  was  lest  he  should  not  be 
able  to  find  the  way  to  that  which  longed  for  him. 

In  front  of  him,  on  the  narrow  path,  crawled  a 
white  snake.  He  bent  down  to  pick  up  the  luck- 
bringing  animal,  but  the  snake  glided  out  of  his 
hands  and  up  the  path.  There  it  coiled  itself  and 
lay  still;  but  when  the  huntsman  again  tried  to 
catch  it,  glided  slippery  as  ice  between  his  fingers. 
Reor  now  grew  eager  to  possess  the  wisest  of  beasts. 
He  ran  after  the  snake,  but  was  not  able  to  reach 
it,  and  the  latter  lured  him  away  from  the  path  into 
the  trackless  forest. 

It  was  overgown  with  pines,  and  in  such  places 
one  seldom  finds  grassy  ground.  But  now  the  dry 
moss  and  brown  pine-needles  suddenly  disappeared, 
the  stiff  cranberry  bushes  vanished,  and  Reor  felt 
under  foot  velvet-like  turf.  Over  the  green  carpet 
trembled  flower  clusters,  light  as  down,  on  bending 
stems,  and  between  the  long,  narrow  leaves  could 
be  seen  the  half-opened  blossoms  of  the  red  gilly- 
flower. It  was  only  a  little  spot,  and  over  it  spread 

9 


130  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

the  gnarled,  red-brown  branches  of  the  lofty  pines, 
with  bunches  of  close-growing  needles.  Through 
these  the  sun's  rays  could  find  many  paths  to  the 
ground,  and  there  was  suffocating  heat. 

In  the  midst  of  the  little  meadow  a  cliff  rose 
perpendicularly  out  of  the  ground.  It  lay  in  sharp 
sunshine,  and  the  mossy  stones  were  plainly  visible, 
and  in  the  fresh  fractures,  where  the  winter's  frost 
had  last  loosened  some  mighty  blocks,  the  long 
stalks  of  ferns  clung  with  their  brown  roots  in  the 
earth-filled  cracks,  and  on  the  inch-wide  projec- 
tions a  grass-green  moss  lifted  on  needle-like  stems 
the  little,  grey  caps,  which  concealed  its  spores. 

The  cliff  seemed  in  all  ways  like  every  other  cliff, 
but  Reor  noticed  instantly  that  he  had  come  upon 
the  gable-wall  of  a  giant's  house,  and  he  discovered 
under  moss  and  lichen  the  great  hinges  on  which 
the  mountain's  granite  door  swung. 

He  now  believed  that  the  snake  had  crept  in,  in 
the  grass  to  hide  there,  until  it  could  come  in  among 
the  rocks  unnoticed,  and  he  gave  up  all  hope  of 
catching  it.  He  perceived  now  again  the  honey- 
sweet  fragrance  of  the  longing  flowers  and  noticed 
that  here  under  the  cliff  the  heat  was  suffocating. 
It  was  also  marvellously  quiet;  not  a  bird  moved, 
not  a  leaf  played  in  the  wind;  it  was  as  if  every- 
thing held  its  breath,  waiting  and  listening  in  un- 
speakable tension.  It  was  as  if  he  had  come  into  a 
room  where  he  was  not  alone,  although  he  saw  no 
one.  He  thought  that  some  one  was  watching  him, 
he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  expected.  He  knew  no 
alarm,  but  was  thrilled  by  a  pleasant  shiver,  as  it 
he  were  soon  to  see  something  above-the-common 
beautiful. 


THE   LEGEND   OF  REOR  131 

In  that  moment  he  again  became  aware  of  the 
snake.  It  had  not  hidden  itself,  it  had  instead 
crawled  up  on  one  of  the  blocks  which  the  frost  had 
broken  from  the  cliff.  And  just  below  the  white 
snake  he  saw  the  bright  body  of  a  girl,  who  lay 
asleep  in  the  soft  grass.  She  lay  without  any  other 
covering  than  a  light,  web-like  veil,  just  as  if  she 
had  thrown  herself  down  there  after  having  taken 
part  the  whole  night  in  some  elfin  dance;  but  the 
long  blades  of  grass  and  the  trembling  flower-clusters 
stood  high  over  the  sleeper,  so  that  Reor  could 
scarcely  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  soft  lines  of  her 
body.  Nor  did  he  go  nearer  in  order  to  see  better. 
He  drew  his  good  knife  from  its  sheath  and  threw  it 
between  the  girl  and  the  cliff,  so  that  the  steel-shy 
daughter  of  the  giants  should  not  be  able  to  flee 
into  the  mountain  when  she  awoke. 

Then  he  stood  still  in  deep  thought.  One  thing 
he  knew,  that  he  wished  to  possess  the  maiden  who 
lay  there;  but  as  yet  he  had  not  quite  made  up  his 
mind  how  he  would  behave  towards  her. 

He,  who  knew  the  language  of  nature  better  than 
that  of  man,  listened  to  the  great,  solemn  forest  and 
the  stern  mountain.  "See,"  they  said,  "to  you, 
who  love  the  wilderness,  we  give  our  fair  daughter. 
She  will  suit  you  better  than  the  daughters  of  the 
plain.  Reor,  are  you  worthy  of  this  most  precious 
of  gifts  ? " 

Then  he  thanked  in  his  heart  the  great,  kind 
Nature  and  decided  to  make  the  maiden  his  wife 
and  not  merely  a  slave.  He  thought  that  since  she 
had  come  to  Christendom  and  human  ways,  she  would 
be  confused  at  the  thought  that  she  had  lain  -so 
uncovered,  so  he  loosened  the  bearskin  from  his 


132  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

back,    unfolded   the   stiff   hide,  and   threw  the  old 
bear's  shaggy,  grizzled  pelt  over  her. 

And  as  he  did  so  a  laugh,  which  made  the  ground 
shake,  thundered  behind  the  cliff.  It  did  not  sound 
like  derision,  but  as  if  some  one  had  sat  in  great 
fear  and  could  not  help  laughing,  when  suddenly 
relieved  of  it.  The  terrible  silence  and  oppressive 
heat  were  also  at  an  end.  Over  the  grass  floated  a 
cooling  wind,  and  the  pine-branches  began  their 
murmuring  song.  The  happy  huntsman  felt  that 
the  whole  forest,  had  held  its  breath,  wondering 
how  the  daughter  of  the  wilderness  would  be  treated 
by  the  son  of  man. 

The  snake  now  glided  down  into  the  high  grass; 
but  the  sleeper  lay  bound  in  a  magic  sleep  and  did 
not  move.  Then  Reor  wrapped  her  in  the  coarse 
bear-skin,  so  that  only  her  head  showed  above  the 
shaggy  fur.  Although  she  certainly  was  a  daughter 
of  the  old  giant  of  the  mountain,  she  was  slender 
and  delicately  made,  and  the  strong  hunter  lifted 
her  on  his  arm  and  carried  her  away  through  the 
forest. 

After  a  while  he  felt  that  some  one  lifted  his 
broad-brimmed  hat.  He  looked  up  and  found  that 
the  giant's  daughter  was  awake.  She  sat  quiet  on 
his  arm,  but  she  wished  to  see  what  the  man  looked 
like  who  was  carrying  her.  He  let  her  do  as  she 
pleased.  He  went  on  with  longer  strides,  but  said 
nothing. 

Then  she  must  have  noticed  how  hot  the  sun 
burned  on  his  head,  since  she  had  taken  off  his  hat. 
She  held  it  out  over  his  head  like  a  parasol,  but  she 
did  not  put  it  back,  rather  held  it  so,  that  she  could 
still  look  down  into  his  face.  Then  it  seemed  to 


THE  LEGEND   OF  RE  OR  133 

him  that  he  did  not  need  to  ask  or  to  speak.  He 
carried  her  silently  down  to  his  mother's  hut.  But 
his  whole  being  was  filled  with  happiness,  and  when 
he  stood  on  the  threshold  of  his  home,  he  saw  the 
white  snake,  which  gives  good  fortune,  glide  in 
under  its  foundation. 


VALDEMAR    ATTERDAG 


VALDEMAR   ATTERDAG 

THE  spring  that  Hellqvist's  great  picture  "  Val- 
demar  Atterdag  levies  a  Contribution  on 
Visby  "  was  exhibited  at  the  Art  League,  I  went  in 
there  one  quiet  morning  not  knowing  that  that  work 
of  art  was  there.  The  big,  richly-colored  canvas 
with  its  many  figures  made  at  the  first  glance  an 
extraordinary  impression.  I  could  not  look  at  any 
other  picture,  but  went  straight  to  that  one,  took  a 
chair  and  sank  into  silent  contemplation.  For  half 
an  hour  I  lived  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

Soon  I  was  within  the  scene  that  was  passing  in 
the  Visby  market-place.  I  saw  the  beer  vats  which 
began  to  be  filled  with  the  golden  brew  that  King 
Valdemar  had  ordered,  and  the  groups  which  gath- 
ered around  them.  I  saw  the  rich  merchant  with 
his  page  bending  under  his  gold  and  silver  dishes; 
the  young  burgher  who  shakes  his  fist  at  the  king; 
the  monk  with  the  sharp  face  who  closely  watches 
His  Majesty;  the  ragged  beggar  who  offers  his 
copper;  the  woman  who  has  sunk  down  beside  one 
of  the  vats ;  the  king  on  his  throne ;  the  soldiers 
who  come  swarming  out  of  the  narrow  streets ;  the 
high  gables,  and  the  scattered  groups  of  insolent 
guards  and  refractory  people. 

But  suddenly  I  noticed  that  the  chief  figure  of  the 
picture  is  not  the  king,  nor  any  of  the  burghers, 


138  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

but  one  01  the  king's  steel-clad  shield-bearers,  the 
one  with  the  closed  vizor. 

Into  that  figure  the  artist  has  put  a  strange  force. 
There  is  not  a  hair  of  him  to  be  seen;  he  is  steel 
and  iron,  the  whole  man,  and  yet  he  gives  the 
impression  of  being  the  rightful  master  of  the 
situation. 

"I  am  Violence;  I  am  Rapacity,"  he  says.  "It  is 
I  who  am  levying  contribution  on  Visby.  I  am  not 
a  human  being;  I  am  merely  steel  and  iron.  My 
pleasure  is  in  suffering  and  evil.  Let  them  go  on 
and  torture  one  another.  To-day  it  is  I  who  am 
lord  of  Visby." 

"Look,"  he  says  to  the  beholder,  "can  you  see 
that  it  is  I  who  am  master?  As  far  as  your  eye  can 
reach,  there  is  nothing  here  but  people  who  are 
torturing  one  another.  Groaning  the  conquered 
come  and  leave  their  gold.  They  hate  and  threaten, 
but  they  obey.  And  the  desires  of  the  victors  grow 
wilder  the  more  gold  they  can  extort.  What  are 
Denmark's  king  and  his  soldiers  but  my  servants, 
at  least  for  this  one  day?  To-morrow  they  will  go 
to  church,  or  sit  in  peaceful  mirth  in  their  inns,  or 
also  perhaps  be  good  fathers  in  their  own  homes, 
but  to-day  they  serve  me;  to-day  they  are  evil-doers 
and  ravishers." 

The  longer  one  listens  to  him,  the  better  one 
understands  what  the  picture  is;  nothing  but  an 
illustration  of  the  old  story  of  how  people  can  tor- 
ture one  another.  There  is  not  one  redeeming 
feature,  only  cruel  violence  and  defiant  hate  and 
hopeless  suffering. 

Those  three  beer  vats  were  to  be  filled  that  Visby 
should  not  be  plundered  and  burned.  Why  do  they 


VALDEMAR  ATTERDAG  139 

not  come,  those  Hanseaters,  with  glowing  enthu- 
siasm? Why  do  the  women  not  hasten  with  their 
jewels;  the  revellers  with  their  cups,  the  priest 
with  his  relics,  eager,  burning  with  enthusiasm  for 
the  sacrifice  ?  "  For  thee,  for  thee,  our  beloved 
town !  It  is  needless  to  send  soldiers  for  us  when 
it  concerns  thee!  Oh,  Visby,  our  mother,  our  honor! 
Take  back  what  thou  hast  given  us ! " 

But  the  painter  has  not  wished  to  see  them  so, 
and  it  was  not  so  either.  No  enthusiasm,  only 
constraint,  only  suppressed  defiance,  only  bewail- 
ings.  Gold  is  everything  to  them,  women  and  men 
sigh  over  that  gold  which  they  have  to  give. 

"  Look  at  them  !  "  says  the  power  that  stands  on 
the  steps  of  the  throne.  "It  goes  to  their  very 
hearts  to  offer  it.  May  he  who  will  feel  sympathy 
for  them !  They  are  mean,  avaricious,  arrogant. 
They  are  no  better  than  the  covetous  brigand  whom 
I  have  sent  against  them." 

A  woman  has  sunk  down  on  the  ground  by  the 
vats.  Does  it  cost  her  so  much  pain  to  give  her 
gold?  Or  is  she  perhaps  the  guilty  one?  Is  she 
the  cause  of  the  laments?  Is  it  she  who  has  be- 
trayed the  town  ?  Yes,  it  is  she  who  has  been  King 
Valdemar's  mistress.  It  is  Nug-Hanse's  daughter. 

She  knows  well  that  she  need  give  no  gold.  Her 
father's  house  will  not  be  plundered,  but  she  has 
collected  what  she  possesses  and  brings  it.  In  the 
market-place  she  has  been  overcome  by  all  the 
misery  she  has  seen  and  has  sunk  down  in  infinite 
despair. 

He  had  been  active  and  merry,  the  young  gold- 
smith's apprentice  who  served  the  year  before  in  her 
father's  house.  It  had  been  glorious  to  stroll  at  his 


140  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

side  through  this  same  market-place,  when  the 
moon  rose  from  behind  the  gables  and  illumined  the 
beauties  of  Visby.  She  had  been  proud  of  him, 
proud  of  her  father,  proud  of  her  town.  And  now 
she  is  lying  there,  broken  with  grief.  Innocent  and 
yet  guilty!  He  who  is  sitting  cold  and  cruel  on  the 
throne  and  who  has  brought  all  this  devastation  on 
the  town,  is  he  the  same  as  the  one  who  whispered 
sweet  words  to  her?  Was  it  to  meet  him  that  she 
crept,  when  the  night  before  she  stole  her  father's 
keys  and  opened  the  town-gate?  And  when  she 
found  her  goldsmith's  apprentice  a  knight  with 
sword  in  hand  and  a  steel-clad  host  behind  him, 
what  did  she  think?  Did  she  go  mad  at  the  sight 
of  that  stream  of  steel  surging  in  through  the  gate 
which  she  had  opened  ?  Too  late  to  bemoan,  maiden ! 
Why  did  you  love  the  enemy  of  your  town  ?  Visby 
is  fallen,  its  glory  shall  pass  away.  Why  did  you 
not  throw  yourself  down  before  the  gate  and  let  the 
steel-shod  heels  trample  you  to  death?  Did  you 
wish  to  live  in  order  to  see  heaven's  thunder-bolts 
strike  the  transgressor? 

Oh  maiden,  at  his  side  stands  Violence  and  pro- 
tects him.  He  has  violated  holier  things  than  a 
trusting  maiden.  He  does  not  even  spare  God's 
own  temple.  He  breaks  away  the  shining  car- 
buncles from  the  church  walls  to  fill  the  last  vat. 

The  bearing  of  all  the  figures  in  the  picture 
changes.  Blind  terror  fills  everything  living.  The 
wildest  soldier  grows  pale;  the  burghers  turn  their 
eyes  towards  heaven;  all  await  God's  punishment; 
all  tremble  except  Violence  on  the  steps  of  the 
throne  and  the  king  who  is  his  servant. 

I  wish  that  the  artist  had  lived  long  enough  to 


VALDEMAR  ATTERDAG  14! 

take  me  down  to  the  harbor  of  Visby  and  let  me  see 
those  same  burghers,  when  they  followed  the  depart- 
ing fleet  with  their  eyes.  They  cry  curses  out  over 
the  waves.  "  Destroy  them  ! "  they  cry.  "  Destroy 
them !  Oh  sea,  our  friend,  take  back  our  treasures ! 
Open  thy  choking  depths  under  the  ungodly,  under 
the  faithless!" 

And  the  sea  murmurs  a  faint  assent,  and  Violence, 
who  stands  on  the  royal  ship,  nods  approvingly. 
"That  is  right,"  he  says.  "To  persecute  and  to  be 
persecuted,  that  is  my  law.  May  storm  and  sea  de- 
stroy the  pirate  fleet  and  take  to  itself  the  treasures 
of  my  royal  servant !  So  much  the  sooner  it  will  be 
our  lot  to  set  out  on  new  devastating  expeditions." 

The  burghers  on  the  shore  turn  and  look  up  at 
their  town.  Fire  has  raged  there;  plunder  has 
passed  through  it ;  behind  broken  panes  gape  pil- 
laged dwellings.  They  see  emptied  streets,  dese- 
crated churches;  bloody  corpses  are  lying  in  the 
narrow  courts,  and  women  crazed  by  fright  flee 
through  the  town.  Shall  they  stand  impotent 
before  such  things?  Is  there  no  one  whom  their 
vengeance  can  reach,  no  one  whom  they  in  their 
turn  can  torture  and  destroy? 

God  in  Heaven,  see!  The  goldsmith's  house  is 
not  plundered  nor  burned.  What  does  it  mean? 
Was  he  in  league  with  the  enemy?  Had  he  not  the 
key  to  one  of  the  town  gates  in  his  keeping  ?  Oh, 
you  daughter  of  Nug-Hanse,  answer,  what  does  it 
mean  ? 

Far  away  on  the  royal  ship  Violence  stands  and 
watches  his  royal  servant,  smiling  behind  his  vizor. 
"Listen  to  the  storm,  Sire,  listen  to  the  storm! 
The  gold  that  you  have  ravished  will  soon  lie  on  the 


142  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

bottom  of  the  sea,  inaccessible  to  you.  And  look 
back  at  Visby,  my  noble  lord !  The  woman  whom 
you  deceived  is  being  led  between  the  clergy  and 
the  soldiers  to  the  town-wall.  Can  you  hear  the 
crowd  following  her,  cursing,  insulting?  Look,  the 
masons  come  with  mortar  and  trowel !  Look,  the 
women  come  with  stones !  They  are  all  bringing 
stones,  all,  all ! 

Oh  king,  if  you  cannot  see  what  is  passing  in 
Visby,  may  you  yet  hear  and  know  what  is  happen- 
ing there.  You  are  not  of  steel  and  iron,  like 
Violence  at  your  side.  When  the  gloomy  days  of 
old  age  come,  and  you  live  under  the  shadow  of 
death,  the  image  of  Nug-Hanse's  daughter  will  rise 
in  your  memory. 

You  shall  see  her  pale  as  death  sink  under  the 
contempt  and  scorn  of  her  people.  You  shall  see 
her  dragged  along  between  the  priests  and  the 
soldiers  to  the  ringing  of  bells  and  the  singing  of 
hymns.  She  is  already  dead  in  the  eyes  of  the 
people.  She  feels  herself  dead  in  her  heart,  killed 
by  what  she  has  loved.  You  shall  see  her  mount  in 
the  tower,  see  how  the  stones  are  inserted,  hear  the 
scraping  of  the  trowels  and  hear  the  people  who 
hurry  forward  with  their  stones.  "  Oh  mason,  take 
mine,  take  mine!  Use  my  stone  for  the  work  of 
vengeance !  Let  my  stone  help  to  shut  Nug-Hanse's 
daughter  in  from  light  and  air!  Visby  is  fallen, 
the  glorious  Visby!  God  bless  your  hands,  oh 
masons !  Let  me  help  to  complete  the  vengeance ! " 

Hymns  sound  and  bells  ring  as  for  a  burial. 

Oh  Valdemar,  King  of  Denmark,  it  will  be  your 
fate  to  meet  death  also.  Then  you  will  lie  on  your 
bed,  hear  and  see  much  and  suffer  great  pains.  You 


VALDEMAR  ATTERDAG  143 

shall  hear  that  scraping  of  the  trowels,  those  cries 
for  vengeance.  Where  are  the  consecrated  bells 
that  drown  the  martyrdom  of  the  soul  ?  Where  are 
they,  with  their  wide,  bronze  throats,  whose  tongues 
cry  out  to  God  for  grace  for  you  ?  Where  is  that 
air  trembling  with  harmony,  which  bears  the  soul 
up  to  God's  space? 

Oh  help  Esrom,  help  Sor6,  and  you  big  bells  of 
Lund! 

What  a  gloomy  story  that  picture  told !  It  seemed 
curious  and  strange  to  come  out  into  the  park,  in 
glowing  sunshine,  among  living  human  beings. 


MAMSELL    FREDRIKA 


MAMSELL   FREDRIKA 

IT  was  Christmas  night,  a  real  Christmas  night. 
The  goblins  raised  the  mountain  roofs  on  lofty 
gold  pillars  and  celebrated  the  midwinter  festival. 
The  brownies  danced  around  the  Christmas  porridge 
in  new  red  caps.  Old  gods  wandered  about  the 
heavens  in  gray  storm  cloaks,  and  in  the  Oster- 
haninge  graveyard  stood  the  horse  of  Hel.1  He 
pawed  with  his  hoof  on  the  frozen  ground;  he  was 
marking  out  the  place  for  a  new  grave. 

Not  very  far  away,  at  the  old  manor  of  Arsta, 
Mamsell  Fredrika  was  lying  asleep.  Arsta  is,  as 
every  one  knows,  an  old  haunted  castle,  but  Mamsell 
Fredrika  slept  a  calm,  quiet  sleep.  She  was  old 
now  and  tired  out  after  many  weary  days  of  work 
and  many  long  journeys,  —  she  had  almost  travelled 
round  the  world,  — therefore  she  had  returned  to 
the  home  of  her  childhood  to  find  rest. 

Outside  the  castle  sounded  in  the  night  a  bold 
fanfare.  Death  mounted  on  a  gray  charger  had 
ridden  up  to  the  castle  gate.  His  wide  scarlet 
cloak  and  his  hat's  proud  plumes  fluttered  in  the 
night  wind.  The  stern  knight  sought  to  win  an 
adoring  heart,  therefore  he  appeared  in  unusual 
magnificence.  It  is  of  no  avail,  Sir  Knight,  of  no 
avail !  The  gate  is  closed,  and  the  lady  of  your 

1  The  goddess  of  death. 


148  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

heart  asleep.  You  must  seek  a  better  occasion  and 
a  more  suitable  hour.  Watch  for  her  when  she  goes 
to  early  mass,  stern  Sir  Knight,  watch  for  her  on 
the  church-road ! 

Old  Mamsell  Fredrika  sleeps  quietly  in  her 
beloved  home.  No  one  deserves  more  than  she 
the  sweetness  of  rest.  Like  a  Christmas  angel  she 
sat  but  now  in  a  circle  of  children,  and  told  them 
of  Jesus  and  the  shepherds,  told  until  her  eyes 
shone,  and  her  withered  face  became  transfigured. 
Now  in  her  old  age  no  one  noticed  what  Mamsell 
Fredrika  looked  like.  Those  who  saw  the  little, 
slender  figure,  the  tiny,  delicate  hands  and  the 
kind,  clever  face,  instantly  longed  to  be  able  to 
preserve  that  sight  in  remembrance  as  the  most 
beautiful  of  memories. 

In  Mamsell  Fredrika' s  big  room,  among  many 
relics  and  souvenirs,  there  was  a  little,  dry  bush. 
It  was  a  Jericho  rose,  brought  back  by  Mamsell 
Fredrika  from  the  far  East.  Now  in  the  Christmas 
night  it  began  to  blossom  quite  of  itself.  The  dry 
twigs  were  covered  with  red  buds,  which  shone  like 
sparks  of  fire  and  lighted  the  whole  room. 

By  the  light  of  the  sparks  one  saw  that  a  small 
and  slender  but  quite  elderly  lady  sat  in  the  big 
arm-chair  and  held  her  court.  It  could  not  be 
Mamsell  Fredrika  herself,  for  she  lay  sleeping  in 
quiet  repose,  and  yet  it  was  she.  She  sat  there  and 
held  a  reception  for  old  memories;  the  room  was 
full  of  them.  People  and  homes  and  subjects  and 
thoughts  and  discussions  came  flying.  Memories 
of  childhood  and  memories  of  youth,  love  and  tears, 
homage  and  bitter  scorn,  all  came  rushing  towards 


MAMSELL  FREDRIKA  149 

the  pale  form  that  sat  and  looked  at  everything  with 
a  friendly  smile.  She  had  words  of  jest  or  of  sym- 
pathy for  them  all. 

At  night  everything  takes  its  right  size  and  shape. 
And  just  as  then  for  the  first  time  the  stars  of 
heaven  are  visible,  one  also  sees  much  on  earth  that 
one  never  sees  by  day.  Now  in  the  light  of  the  red 
buds  of  the  Jericho  rose  one  could  see  a  crowd  of 
strange  figures  in  Mamsell  Fredrika's  drawing-room. 
The  hard  "ma  chere  mere"  was  there,  the  good- 
natured  Beata  Hvardagslag,  people  from  the  East 
and  the  West,  the  enthusiastic  Nina,  the  energetic, 
struggling  Hertha  in  her  white  dress. 

"  Can  any  one  tell  me  why  that  person  must  always 
be  dressed  in  white? "  jested  the  little  figure  in  the 
arm-chair  when  she  caught  sight  of  her. 

All  the  memories  spoke  to  the  old  woman  and 
said :  "  You  have  seen  and  experienced  so  much ; 
you  have  worked  and  earned  so  much !  Are  you  not 
tired?  will  you  not  go  to  rest?" 

"Not  yet,"  answered  the  shadow  in  the  yellow 
arm-chair.  "  I  have  still  a  book  to  write.  I  cannot 
go  to  rest  before  it  is  finished." 

Thereupon  the  figures  vanished.  The  Jericho 
rose  went  out,  and  the  yellow  arm-chair  stood 
empty. 

In  the  Osterhaninge  church  the  dead  were  cele- 
brating midnight  mass.  One  of  them  climbed  up  to 
the  bell-tower  and  rang  in  Christmas ;  another  went 
about  and  lighted  the  Christmas  candles,  and  a 
third  began  with  bony  fingers  to  play  the  organ. 
Through  the  open  doors  others  came  swarming  in 
out  of  the  night  and  their  graves  to  the  bright, 
glowing  House  of  the  Lord.  Just  as  they  had  been 


ISO  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

in  life  they  came,  only  a  little  paler.  They  opened 
the  pew-doors  with  rattling  keys  and  chatted  and 
whispered  as  they  walked  up  the  aisle, 

"They  are  the  candles  she  has  given  the  poor  that 
are  now  shining  in  God's  house." 

"  We  lie  warm  in  our  graves  as  long  as  she  gives 
clothes  arrd  wood  to  the  poor." 

"  She  has  spoken  so  many  noble  words  that  have 
opened  the  hearts  of  men;  those  words  are  the  keys 
of  our  pews. 

"She  has  thought  beautiful  thoughts  of  God's 
love.  Those  thoughts  raise  us  from  our  graves. " 

So  they  whispered  and  murmured  before  they  sat 
down  in  the  pews  and  bent  their  pale  foreheads  in 
prayer  in  their  shrunken  hands. 

At  Arsta  some  one  came  into  Mamsell  Fredrika's 
room  and  laid  her  hand  gently  on  the  sleeper's  arm. 

"Up,  my  Fredrika!  It  is  time  to  go  to  the  early 
mass." 

Old  Mamsell  Fredrika  opened  her  eyes  and  saw 
Agathe,  her  beloved  sister  who  was  dead,  standing 
by  the  bed  with  a  candle  in  her  hand.  She  recog- 
nized her,  for  she  looked  just  as  she  had  done  on 
earth.  Mamsell  Fredrika  was  not  afraid;  she  re- 
joiced only  at  seeing  her  loved  one,  at  whose  side 
she  longed  to  sleep  the  everlasting  sleep. 

She  rose  and  dressed  herself  with  all  speed. 
There  was  no  time  for  conversation;  the  carriage 
stood  before  the  door.  The  others  must  have  gone 
already,  for  no  one  but  Mamsell  Fredrika  and  her 
dead  sister  were  moving  in  the  house. 

"Do  you  remember,  Fredrika,"  said  the  sister,  as 
they  sat  in  the  carriage  and  drove  quickly  to  the 


MA  MS  ELL  FREDRIKA  !$! 

church,  "  do  you  remember  how  you  always  in  the 
old  days  expected  some  knight  to  carry  you  off  on 
the  road  to  church? " 

"I  am  still  expecting  it,"  said  old  Mamsell 
Fredrika,  and  laughed.  "I  never  ride  in  this  car- 
riage without  looking  out  for  my  knight." 

Even  though  they  hurried,  they  came  too  late. 
The  priest  stepped  down  from  the  pulpit  as  they 
entered  the  church,  and  the  closing  hymn  began. 
Never  had  Mamsell  Fredrika  heard  such  a  beautiful 
song.  It  was  as  if  both  earth  and  heaven  joined  in, 
in  the  song ;  as  if  every  bench  and  stone  and  board 
had  sung  too. 

She  had  never  seen  the  church  so  crowded:  on 
the  communion-table  and  on  the  pulpit  steps  sat 
people;  they  stood  in  the  aisles,  they  thronged  in  the 
pews,  and  outside  the  whole  road  was  packed  with 
people  who  could  not  enter.  The  sisters,  however, 
found  places ;  for  them  the  crowd  moved  aside. 

"  Fredrika,"  said  her  sister,  "  look  at  the  people ! " 

And  Mamsell  Fredrika  looked  and  looked. 

Then  she  perceived  that  she,  like  the  woman  in 
the  saga,  had  come  to  a  mass  of  the  dead.  She  felt 
a  cold  shiver  pass  down  her  back,  but  it  happened, 
as  often  before,  she  felt  more  curious  than  frightened. 

She  saw  now  who  were  in  the  church.  There 
were  none  but  women  there :  grey,  bent  forms,  with 
circular  capes  and  faded  mantillas,  with  hats  of 
faded  splendor  and  turned  or  threadbare  dresses. 
She  saw  an  unheard-of  number  of  wrinkled  faces, 
sunken  mouths,  dim  eyes  and  shrivelled  hands,  but 
not  a  single  hand  which  wore  a  plain  gold  ring. 

Yes,  Mamsell  Fredrika  understood  it  now.  It 
was  all  the  old  maids  who  had  passed  away  in  the 


152  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

land  of  Sweden  who  were  keeping  midnight  mass  in 
the  Osterhaninge  church. 

Her  dead  sister  leaned  towards  her. 

"  Sister,  do  you  repent  of  what  you  have  done  for 
these  your  sisters? " 

"No,"  said  Mamsell  Fredrika.  "What  have  I  to 
be  glad  for  if  not  that  it  has  been  bestowed  upon 
me  to  work  for  them  ?  I  once  sacrificed  my  position 
as  an  authoress  to  them.  I  am  glad  that  I  knew 
what  I  sacrificed  and  yet  did  it. " 

"Then  you  may  stay  and  hear  more,"  said  the 
sister. 

At  the  same  moment  some  one  was  heard  to  speak 
far  away  in  the  choir,  a  mild  but  distinct  voice. 

"My  sisters,"  said  the  voice,  "our  pitiable  race, 
our  ignorant  and  despised  race  will  soon  exist  no 
more.  God  has  willed  that  we  shall  die  out  from 
the  earth. 

"Dear  friends,  we  shall  soon  be  only  a  legend. 
The  old  Mamsells'  measure  is  full.  Death  rides 
about  on  the  road  to  the  church  to  meet  the  last  one 
of  us.  Before  the  next  midnight  mass  she  will  be 
dead,  the  last  old  Mamsell. 

"Sisters,  sisters!  We  are  the  lonely  ones  of  the 
earth,  the  neglected  ones  at  the  feast,  the  unappre- 
ciated workers  in  the  homes.  We  are  met  with 
scorn  and  indifference.  Our  way  is  weary  and  our 
name  is  ridicule. 

"  But  God  has  had  mercy  upon  us. 

"To  one  of  us  He  gave  power  and  genius.  To 
one  of  us  He  gave  never-failing  goodness.  To  one 
of  us  He  gave  the  glorious  gift  of  eloquence.  She 
was  everything  we  ought  to  have  been.  She  threw 
light  on  our  dark  fate.  She  was  the  servant  of  the 


MAM  SELL   FRED  RIKA  153 

homes,  as  we  had  been,  but  she  offered  her  gifts  to 
a  thousand  homes.  She  was  the  caretaker  of  the 
sick,  as  we  had  been,  but  she  struggled  with  the 
terrible  epidemic  of  habits  of  former  days.  She 
told  her  stories  to  thousands  of  children.  She  had 
her  poor  friends  in  every  land.  She  gave  from  fuller 
hands  than  we  and  with  a  warmer  spirit.  In  her 
heart  dwelt  none  of  our  bitterness,  for  she  has  loved 
it  away.  Her  glory  has  been  that  of  a  queen's. 
She  has  been  offered  the  treasures  of  gratitude  by 
millions  of  hearts.  Her  word  has  weighed  heavily 
in  the  great  questions  of  mankind.  Her  name  has 
sounded  through  the  new  and  the  old  world.  And 
yet  she  is  only  an  old  Mamsell. 

"  She  has  transfigured  our  dark  fate.  Blessings 
on  her  name !  " 

The  dead  joined  in,  in  a  thousandfold  echo :  "  Bless- 
ings on  her  name!" 

"Sister,"  whispered  Mamsell  Fredrika,  "can  you 
not  forbid  them  to  make  me,  poor,  sinful  being, 
proud?" 

"But,  sisters,  sisters,"  continued  the  voice,  "she 
has  turned  against  our  race  with  all  her  great  power. 
At  her  cry  for  freedom  and  work  for  all,  the  old, 
despised  livers  on  charity  have  died  out.  She  has 
broken  down  the  tyranny  that  fenced  in  childhood. 
She  has  stirred  young  girls  towards  the  wide  activ- 
ity of  life.  She  has  put  an  end  to  loneliness,  to 
ignorance,  to  joylessness.  No  unhappy,  despised 
old  Mamsells  without  aim  or  purpose  in  life  will 
ever  exist  again;  none  such  as  we  have  been." 

Again  resounded  the  echo  of  the  shades,  merry  as 
a  hunting-song  in  the  wood  which  is  sung  by  a  happy 
throng  of  children:  "Blessed  be  her  memory!" 


154  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Thereupon  the  dead  swarmed  out  of  the  church, 
and  Mamsell  Fredrika  wiped  away  a  tear  from  the 
corner  of  her  eye. 

"I  will  not  go  home  with  you,"  said  her  dead 
sister.  "  Will  you  not  stop  here  now  also  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to,  but  I  cannot.  There  is  a  book 
which  I  must  make  ready  first. " 

"Well,  good-night  then,  and  beware  of  the  knight 
of  the  church-road,"  said  her  dead  sister,  and  smiled 
roguishly  in  her  old  way. 

Then  Mamsell  Fredrika  drove  home.  All  Arsta 
still  slept,  and  she  went  quietly  to  her  room,  lay 
down  and  slept  again. 

A  few  hours  later  she  drove  to  the  real  early  mass. 
She  drove  in  a  closed  carriage,  but  she  let  down  the 
window  to  look  at  the  stars;  it  is  possible  too  that 
she,  as  of  old,  was  looking  for  her  knight. 

And  there  he  was ;  he  sprang  forward  to  the  win- 
dow of  the  carriage.  He  sat  his  prancing  charger 
magnificently.  His  scarlet  cloak  fluttered  in  the 
wind.  His  pale  face  was  stern,  but  beautiful. 

"Will  you  be  mine?"  he  whispered. 

She  was  transported  in  her  old  heart  by  the  lofty 
figure  with  the  waving  plumes.  She  forgot  that  she 
needed  to  live  a  year  yet. 

"I  am  ready,"  she  whispered. 

"Then  I  will  come  and  fetch  you  in  a  week  at 
your  father's  house." 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  and  then  he  van- 
ished; she  began  to  shiver  and  tremble  under 
Death's  kiss. 

A  little  later  Mamsell  Fredrika  sat  in  the  church, 
in  the  same  place  where  she  had  sat  as  a  child. 


MAMSELL  FRED  RIKA  155 

Here  she  forgot  both  the  knight  and  the  ghosts,  and 
sat  smiling  in  quiet  delight  at  the  thought  of  the 
revelation  of  the  glory  of  God. 

But  either  she  was  tired  because  she  had  not  slept 
the  whole  night,  or  the  warmth  and  the  closeness 
and  the  smell  of  the  candles  had  a  soporific  effect  on 
her  as  on  many  another. 

She  fell  asleep,  only  for  a  second;  she  absolutely 
could  not  help  it. 

Perhaps,  too,  God  wished  to  open  to  her  the  gates 
of  the  land  of  dreams. 

In  that  single  second  when  she  slept,  she  saw  her 
stern  father,  her  lovely,  beautifully-dressed  mother, 
and  the  ugly,  little  Petrea  sitting  in  the  church. 
And  the  soul  of  the  child  was  compressed  by  an 
anguish  greater  than  has  ever  been  felt  by  a  grown 
person.  The  priest  stood  in  the  pulpit  and  spoke  of 
the  stern,  avenging  God,  and  the  child  sat  pale  and 
trembling,  as  if  the  words  had  been  axe-blows  and 
had  gone  through  its  heart. 

"  Oh,  what  a  God,  what  a  terrible  God ! " 

In  the  next  second  she  was  awake,  but  she  trembled 
and  shuddered,  as  after  the  kiss  of  death  on  the 
church-road.  Her  heart  was  once  more  caught  in 
the  wild  grief  of  her  childhood. 

She  wished  to  hurry  from  the  church.  She  must 
go  home  and  write  her  book,  her  glorious  book  on 
the  God  of  peace  and  love. 

Nothing  else  that  can  be  deemed  worth  mention- 
ing happened  to  Mamsell  Fredrika  before  New 
Year's  night.  Life  and  death,  like  day  and  night, 
reigned  in  quiet  concord  over  the  earth  during  the 
last  week  of  the  year,  but  when  New  Year's  night 


156  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

came,    Death  took  his  sceptre  and  announced  that 
now  old  Mamsell  Fredrika  should  belong  to  him. 

Had  they  but  known  it,  all  the  people  of  Sweden 
would  certainly  have  prayed  a  common  prayer  to 
God  to  be  allowed  to  keep  their  purest  spirit,  their 
warmest  heart.  Many  homes  in  many  lands  where 
she  had  left  loving  hearts  would  have  watched  with 
despair  and  grief.  The  poor,  the  sick  and  the 
needy  would  have  forgotten  their  own  wants  to 
remember  hers,  and  all  the  children  who  had  grown 
up  blessing  her  work  would  have  clasped  their  hands 
to  pray  for  one  more  year  for  their  best  friend.  One 
year,  that  she  might  make  all  fully  clear  and  put  the 
finishing-touch  on  her  life's  work. 

For  Death  was  too  prompt  for  Mamsell  Fredrika. 

There  was  a  storm  outside  on  that  New  Year's 
night ;  there  was  a  storm  within  her  soul.  She  felt 
all  the  agony  of  life  and  death  coming  to  a  crisis. 

"  Anguish  !  "  she  sighed,  "  anguish ! " 

But  the  anguish  gave  way,  and  peace  came,  and 
she  whispered  softly :  "  The  love  of  Christ  —  the 
best  love  —  the  peace  of  God  —  the  everlasting 
light!" 

Yes,  that  was  what  she  would  have  written  in  her 
book,  and  perhaps  much  else  as  beautiful  and  won- 
derful. Who  knows?  Only  one  thing  we  know, 
that  books  are  forgotten,  but  such  a  life  as  hers 
never  is. 

The  old  prophetess's  eyes  closed  and  she  sank 
into  visions. 

Her  body  struggled  with  death,  but  she  did  not 
know  it.  Her  family  sat  weeping  about  her  death- 
bed, but  she  did  not  see  them.  Her  spirit  had 
begun  its  flight. 


MAMSELL  FREDRIKA  157 

Dreams  became  reality  to  her  and  reality  dreams. 
Now  she  stood,  as  she  had  already  seen  herself  in 
the  visions  of  her  youth,  waiting  at  the  gates  of 
heaven  with  innumerable  hosts  of  the  dead  round 
about  her.  And  heaven  opened.  He,  the  only  one, 
the  Saviour,  stood  in  its  open  gates.  And  his 
infinite  love  woke  in  the  waiting  spirits  and  in  her 
a  longing  to  fly  to  his  embrace,  and  their  longing 
lifted  them  and  her,  and  they  floated  as  if  on  wings 
upwards,  upwards. 

The  next  day  there  was  mourning  in  the  land; 
mourning  in  wide  parts  of  the  earth. 

Fredrika  Bremer  was  dead. 


THE    ROMANCE    OF   A    FISHER- 
MAN'S  WIFE 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   A    FISHERMAN'S 
WIFE 

ON  the  outer  edge  of  the  fishing-village  stood  a 
little  cottage  on  a  low  mound  of  white  sea  sand. 
It  was  not  built  in  line  with  the  even,  neat,  conven- 
tional houses  that  enclosed  the  wide  green  place 
where  the  brown  fish-nets  were  dried,  but  seemed  as 
if  forced  out  of  the  row  and  pushed  on  one  side  to 
the  sand-hills.  The  poor  widow  who  had  erected  it 
had  been  her  own  builder,  and  she  had  made  the 
walls  of  her  cottage  lower  than  those  of  all  the 
other  cottages  and  its  steep  thatched  roof  higher 
than  any  other  roof  in  the  fishing-village.  The  floor 
lay  deep  down  in  the  ground.  The  window  was 
neither  high  nor  wide,  but  nevertheless  it  reached 
from  the  cornice  to  the  level  of  the  earth.  There 
had  been  no  space  for  a  chimney-breast  in  the  one 
narrow  room  and  she  had  been  obliged  to  add  a 
small,  square  projection.  The  cottage  had  not, 
like  the  other  cottages,  its  fenced-in  garden  with 
gooseberry  bushes  and  twining  morning-glories  and 
elder-bushes  half  suffocated  by  burdocks.  Of  all 
the  vegetation  of  the  fishing-village,  only  the  bur- 
docks had  followed  the  cottage  to  the  sand-hill. 
They  were  fine  enough  in  summer  with  their  fresh, 
dark-green  leaves  and  prickly  baskets  filled  with 
bright,  red  flowers.  But  towards  the  autumn,  when 
the  prickles  had  hardened  and  the  seeds  had  ripened, 


162  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

they  grew  careless  about  their  looks,  and  stood 
hideously  ugly  and  dry  with  their  torn  leaves  wrapped 
in  a  melancholy  shroud  of  dusty  cobwebs. 

The  cottage  never  had  more  than  two  owners,  for 
it  could  not  hold  up  that  heavy  roof  on  its  walls  of 
reeds  and  clay  for  more  than  two  generations.  But 
as  long  as  it  stood,  it  was  owned  by  poor  widows. 
The  second  widow  who  lived  there  delighted  in 
watching  the  burdocks,  especially  in  the  autumn, 
when  they  were  dried  and  broken.  They  recalled 
her  who  had  built  the  cottage.  She  too  had  been 
shrivelled  and  dry  and  had  had  the  power  to  cling 
fast  and  adhere,  and  all  her  strength  had  been  used 
for  her  child,  whom  she  had  needed  to  help  on  in 
the  world.  She,  who  now  sat  there  alone,  wished 
both  to  weep  and  to  laugh  at  the  thought  of  it.  If 
the  old  woman  had  not  had  a  burr-like  nature,  how 
different  everything  would  have  been!  But  who 
knows  if  it  would  have  been  better? 

The  lonely  woman  often  sat  musing  on  the  fate 
which  had  brought  her  to  this  spot  on  the  coast  of 
Skone,  to  the  narrow  inlet  and  among  these  quiet 
people.  For  she  was  born  in  a  Norwegian  seaport 
which  lay  on  a  narrow  strip  of  land  between  rushing 
falls  and  the  open  sea,  and  although  her  means  were 
small  after  the  death  of  her  father,  a  merchant,  who 
left  his  family  in  poverty,  still  she  was  used  to  life 
and  progress.  She  used  to  tell  her  story  to  herself 
over  and  over  again,  just  as  one  often  reads  through 
an  obscure  book  in  order  to  try  to  discover  its 
meaning. 

The  first  thing  of  note  which  had  happened  to  her 
was  when,  one  evening  on  the  way  home  from  the 
dressmaker  with  whom  she  worked,  she  had  been 


ROMANCE   OF  A    FISHERMAN'S   WIFE     163 

attacked  by  two  sailors  and  rescued  by  a  third.  The 
latter  fought  for  her  at  peril  of  his  life  and  after- 
wards went  home  with  her.  She  took  him  in  to  her 
mother  and  sisters,  and  told  them  excitedly  what  he 
had  done.  It  was  as  if  life  had  acquired  a  new  value 
for  her,  because  another  had  dared  so  much  to  defend 
it.  He  had  been  immediately  well  received  by  her 
family  and  asked  to  come  again  as  soon  and  as  often 
as  he  could. 

His  name  was  Borje  Nilsson,  and  he  was  a  sailor 
on  the  Swedish  lugger  "  Albertina."  As  long  as  the 
boat  lay  in  the  harbor,  he  came  almost  every  day  to 
her  home,  and  they  could  soon  no  longer  believe 
that  he  was  only  a  common  sailor.  He  shone  always 
in  a  clean,  turned-down  collar  and  wore  a  sailor  suit 
of  fine  cloth.  Natural  and  frank,  he  showed  himself 
among  them,  as  if  he  had  been  used  to  move  in  the 
same  class  as  they.  Without  his  ever  having  said  it 
in  so  many  words,  they  got  the  impression  that  he 
was  from  a  respectable  home,  the  only  son  of  a  rich 
widow,  but  that  his  unconquerable  love  for  a  sailor's 
profession  had  made  him  take  a  place  before  the 
mast,  so  that  his  mother  should  see  that  he  was  in 
earnest.  When  he  had  passed  his  examination,  she 
would  certainly  get  him  his  own  ship. 

The  lonely  family  who  had  drawn  away  from  all 
their  former  friends,  received  him  without  the 
slightest  suspicion.  And  he  described  with  a  light 
heart  and  fluent  tongue  his  home  with  its  high, 
pointed  roof,  the  great  open  fireplace  in  the  dining- 
room  and  the  little  leaded  glass  panes.  He  also 
painted  the  silent  streets  of  his  native  town  and  the 
long  rows  of  even  houses,  built  in  the  same  style, 
against  which  his  home,  with  its  irregular  buttresses 


1 64  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

and  terraces,  made  a  pleasant  contrast.  And  his 
listeners  believed  that  he  had  come  from  one  of 
those  old  burgher  houses  with  carved  gables  and 
with  overhanging  second  stories,  which  give  such 
a  strong  impression  of  wealth  and  venerable  age. 

Soon  enough  she  saw  that  he  cared  for  her.  And 
that  gave  her  mother  and  sisters  great  joy.  The 
young,  rich  Swede  came  as  if  to  raise  them  all  up 
from  their  poverty.  Even  if  she  had  not  loved  him, 
which  she  did,  she  would  never  have  had  a  thought 
of  saying  no  to  his  proposal.  If  she  had  had  a 
father  or  a  grown-up  brother,  he  could  have  found 
out  about  the  stranger's  extraction  and  position,  but 
neither  she  nor  her  mother  thought  of  making  any 
inquiries.  Afterwards  she  saw  how  they  had  actually 
forced  him  to  lie.  In  the  beginning,  he  had  let 
them  imagine  great  ideas  about  his  wealth  without 
any  evil  intention,  but  when  he  understood  how  glad 
they  were  over  it,  he  had  not  dared  to  speak  the 
truth  for  fear  of  losing  her. 

Before  he  left  they  were  betrothed,  and  when  the 
lugger  came  again,  they  were  married.  It  was  a 
disappointment  for  her  that  he  also  on  his  return 
appeared  as  a  sailor,  but  he  had  been  bound  by  his 
contract.  He  had  no  greetings  either  from  his 
mother.  She  had  expected  him  to  make  another 
choice,  but  she  would  be  so  glad,  he  said,  if  she 
would  once  see  Astrid.  —  In  spite  of  all  his  lies,  it 
would  have  been  an  easy  matter  to  see  that  he  was 
a  poor  man,  if  they  had  only  chosen  to  use  their 
eyes. 

The  captain  offered  her  his  cabin  if  she  would  like 
to  make  the  journey  in  his  vessel,  and  the  offer  was 
accepted  with  delight.  Borje  was  almost  exempt 


ROMANCE   OF  A   FISHERMAN^   WIFE     165 

from  all  work,  and  sat  most  of  the  time  on  the  deck, 
talking  to  his  wife.  And  now  he  gave  her  the  hap- 
piness of  fancy,  such  as  he  himself  had  lived  on  all 
his  life.  The  more  he  thought  of  that  little  house 
which  lay  half  buried  in  the  sand,  so  much  the 
higher  he  raised  that  palace  which  he  would  have 
liked  to  offer  her.  He  let  her  in  thought  glide  into 
a  harbor  which  was  adorned  with  flags  and  flowers  in 
honor  of  Borje  Nilsson's  bride.  He  let  her  hear  the 
mayor's  speech  of  greeting.  He  let  her  drive  under 
a  triumphal  arch,  while  the  eyes  of  men  followed 
her  and  the  women  grew  pale  with  envy.  And  he 
led  her  into  the  stately  home,  where  bowing,  silvery- 
haired  servants  stood  drawn  up  along  the  side  of  the 
broad  stairway  and  where  the  table  laden  for  the 
feast  groaned  under  the  old  family  silver. 

When  she  discovered  the  truth,  she  supposed  at 
first  that  the  captain  had  been  in  league  with  Borje 
to  deceive  her,  but  afterwards  she  found  that  it  was 
not  so.  They  were  accustomed  on  board  the  boat 
to  speak  of  Borje  as  of  a  great  man.  It  was  their 
greatest  joke  to  talk  quite  seriously  of  his  riches 
and  his  fine  family.  They  thought  that  Borje  had 
told  her  the  truth,  but  that  she  joked  with  him,  as 
they  all  did,  when  she  talked  about  his  big  house. 
So  it  happened  that  when  the  lugger  cast  anchor  in 
the  harbor  which  lay  nearest  to  Borje's  home,  she 
still  did  not  know  but  that  she  was  the  wife  of  a 
rich  man. 

Borje  got  a  day's  leave  to  conduct  his  wife  to  her 
future  home  and  to  start  her  in  her  new  life.  When 
they  were  landed  on  the  quay,  where  the  flags  were 
to  have  fluttered  and  the  crowds  to  have  rejoiced  in 
honor  of  the  newly-married  couple,  only  emptiness 


1 66  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

and  calm  reigned  there,  and  Borje  noticed  that  his 
wife  looked  about  her  with  a  certain  disappointment. 

"We  have  come  too  soon,"  he  had  said.  "The 
journey  was  such  an  unusually  quick  one  in  this  fine 
weather.  So  we  have  no  carriage  here  either,  and 
we  have  far  to  go,  for  the  house  lies  outside  the 
town. " 

"That  makes  no  difference,  Borje,"  she  had  an- 
swered. "  It  will  do  us  good  to  walk,  after  having 
been  quiet  so  long  on  board." 

And  so  they  began  their  walk,  that  walk  of  horror, 
of  which  she  could  not  think  even  in  her  old  age 
without  moaning  in  agony  and  wringing  her  hands 
in  pain.  They  went  along  the  broad,  empty  streets, 
which  she  instantly  recognized  from  his  description. 
She  felt  as  if  she  met  with  old  friends  both  in  the 
dark  church  and  in  the  even  houses  of  timber  and 
brick ;  but  where  were  the  carved  gables  and  marble 
steps  with  the  high  railing? 

Borje  had  nodded  to  her  as  if  he  had  guessed  her 
thoughts.  "It  is  a  long  way  still,"  he  had  said. 

If  he  had  only  been  merciful  and  at  once  killed 
her  hope.  She  loved  him  so  then.  If  he  of  his 
own  accord  had  told  her  everything,  there  would 
never  have  been  any  sting  in  her  soul  against  him. 
But  when  he  saw  her  pain  at  being  deceived,  and 
yet  went  on  misleading  her,  that  had  hurt  her  too 
bitterly.  She  had  never  really  forgiven  him  that. 
She  could  of  course  say  to  herself  that  he  had  wanted 
to  take  her  with  him  as  far  as  possible  so  that  she 
would  not  be  able  to  run  away  from  him,  but  his 
deceit  created  such  a  deadly  coldness  in  her  that  no 
love  could  entirely  thaw  it. 

They  went  through  the  town  and  came  out  on  the 


ROMANCE   OF  A   FISHERMAN'S   WIFE     l6/ 

adjoining  plain.  There  stretched  several  rows  of 
dark  moats  and  high,  green  ramparts,  remains  from 
the  time  when  the  town  had  been  fortified,  and  at 
the  point  where  they  all  gathered  around  a  fort,  she 
saw  some  ancient  buildings  and  big,  round  towers. 
She  cast  a  shy  look  towards  them,  but  Borje  turned 
off  to  the  mounds  which  followed  the  shore. 

"This  is  a  shorter  way,"  he  said,  for  she  seemed 
to  be  surprised  that  there  was  only  a  narrow  path  to 
follow. 

He  had  become  very  taciturn.  She  understood 
afterwards  that  he  had  not  found  it  so  merry  as  he 
had  fancied,  to  come  with  a  wife  to  the  miserable 
little  house  in  the  fishing  village.  It  did  not  seem 
so  fine  now  to  bring  home  a  better  man's  child. 
He  was  anxious  about  what  she  would  do  when  she 
should  know  the  truth. 

"Borje,"  she  said  at  last,  when  they  had  followed 
the  shelving,  sandy  hillocks  for  a  long  while,  "where 
are  we  going? " 

He  lifted  his  hand  and  pointed  towards  the  fish- 
ing-village, where  his  mother  lived  in  the  house  on 
the  sand-hill.  But  she  believed  that  he  meant  one 
of  the  beautiful  country-seats  which  lay  on  the  edge 
of  the  plain,  and  was  again  glad. 

They  climbed  down  into  the  empty  cow-pastures, 
and  there  all  her  uneasiness  returned.  There,  where 
every  tuft,  if  one  can  only  see  it,  is  clothed  with 
beauty  and  variety,  she  saw  merely  an  ugly  field. 
And  the  wind,  which  is  ever  shifting  there,  swept 
whistling  by  them  and  whispered  of  misfortune  and 
treachery. 

"  Borje  walked  faster  and  faster,  and  at  last  they 
reached  the  end  of  the  pasture  and  entered  the 


1 68  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

fishing  village.  She,  who  at  the  last  had  not  dared 
to  ask  herself  any  questions,  took  courage  again. 
Here  again  was  a  uniform  row  of  houses,  and  this 
one  she  recognized  even  better  than  that  in  the 
town.  Perhaps,  perhaps  he  had  not  lied. 

Her  expectations  were  so  reduced  that  she  would 
have  been  glad  from  the  heart  if  she  could  have 
stopped  at  any  of  the  neat  little  houses,  where 
flowers  and  white  curtains  showed  behind  shining 
window-panes.  She  grieved  that  she  had  to  go  by 
them. 

Then  she  saw  suddenly,  just  at  the  outer  edge  of 
the  fishing-village,  one  of  the  most  wretched  of 
hovels,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  already 
seen  it  with  her  mind's  eye  before  she  actually  had 
a  glimpse  of  it. 

"Is  it  here?"  he  said,  and  stopped  just  at  the 
foot  of  the  little  sand-hill. 

He  bent  his  head  imperceptibly  and  went  on 
towards  the  little  cottage. 

"Wait,"  she  called  after  him,  "we  must  talk  this 
over  before  I  go  into  your  home.  You  have  lied," 
she  went  on,  threateningly,  when  he  turned  to  her. 
"  You  have  deceived  me  worse  than  if  you  were  my 
worst  enemy.  Why  have  you  done  it  ? " 

"  I  wanted  you  for  my  wife, "  he  answered,  with  a 
low,  trembling  voice. 

"If  you  had  only  deceived  me  within  bounds! 
Why  did  you  make  everything  so  fine  and  rich? 
What  did  you  have  to  do  with  man-servants  and 
triumphal  arches  and  all  the  other  magnificence? 
Did  you  think  that  I  was  so  devoted  to  money  ?  Did 
you  not  see  that  I  cared  enough  for  you  to  go  any- 
where with  you  ?  That  you  could  believe  you  needed 


ROMANCE   OF  A   FISHERMAN'S   WIFE     169 

to  deceive  me!  That  you  could  have  the  heart  to 
keep  up  your  lies  to  the  very  last ! " 

"  Will  you  not  come  in  and  speak  to  my  mother?  " 
he  said,  helplessly. 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  go  in  there. " 

"  Are  you  going  home  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  go  home  ?  How  could  I  cause  them 
there  at  home  such  sorrow  as  to  return,  when  they 
believe  me  happy  and  rich?  But  with  you  I  will 
not  stay  either.  For  one  who  is  willing  to  work 
there  is  always  a  livelihood." 

"Stop!"  he  begged.      "I  did  it  only  to  win  you." 

"  If  you  had  told  me  the  truth,  I  would  have  stayed. " 

"  If  I  had  been  a  rich  man,  who  had  pretended  to 
be  poor,  then  you  would  have  stayed." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  turned  to  go, 
when  the  door  of  the  cottage  opened  and  Borje' s 
mother  came  out.  She  was  a  little,  dried-up  old 
woman  with  few  teeth  and  many  wrinkles,  but  not 
so  old  in  years  or  in  feelings  as  in  looks. 

She  had  heard  a  part  and  guessed  a  part,  for  she 
knew  what  they  were  quarrelling  about.  "Well," 
she  said,  "that  is  a  fine  daughter-in-law  you  have 
got  me,  Borje.  And  you  have  been  deceiving  again, 
I  can  hear."  But  to  Astrid  she  came  and  patted 
her  kindly  on  the  cheek.  "  Come  in  with  me,  you 
poor  child !  I  know  that  you  are  tired  and  worn  out. 
This  is  my  house.  He  is  not  allowed  to  come  in  here. 
But  you  come.  Now  you  are  my  daughter,  and  I  can- 
not let  you  go  to  strangers,  do  you  understand?  " 

She  caressed  her  daughter-in-law  and  chatted  to 
her  and  drew  and  pushed  her  quite  imperceptibly 
forward  to  the  door.  Step  by  step  she  lured  her  on, 
and  at  last  got  her  inside  the  house;  but  Borje  she 


I/O  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

shut  out.  And  there,  within,  the  old  woman  began 
to  ask  who  she  was  and  how  it  had  all  happened. 
And  she  wept  over  her  and  made  her  weep  over 
herself.  The  old  woman  was  merciless  about  her 
son.  She,  Astrid,  did  right;  she  could  not  stay 
with  such  a  man.  It  was  true  that  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  lying,  it  was  really  true. 

She  told  her  How  it  had  been  with  her  son.  He 
had  been  so  fair  in  face  and  limbs,  even  when  he 
was  small,  that  she  had  always  marvelled  that  he 
was  a  poor  man's  child.  He  was  like  a  little  prince 
gone  astray.  And  ever  after  it  had  always  seemed 
as  if  he  had  not  been  in  his  right  place.  He  saw 
everything  on  such  a  large  scale.  He  could  not  see 
things  as  they  were,  when  it  concerned  himself. 
His  mother  had  wept  many  a  time  on  that  account. 
But  never  before  had  he  done  any  harm  with  his 
lies.  Here,  where  he  was  known,  they  only  laughed 
at  him.  —  But  now  he  must  have  been  so  terribly 
tempted.  Did  she  really  not  think,  she,  Astrid, 
that  it  was  wonderful  how  the  fisher  boy  had  been 
able  to  deceive  them  ?  He  had  always  known  so 
much  about  wealth,  as  if  he  had  been  born  to  it. 
It  must  be  that  he  had  come  into  the  world  in  the 
wrong  place.  See,  that  was  another  proof,  — he  had 
never  thought  of  choosing  a  wife  in  his  own  station. 

"Where  will  he  sleep  to-night?"  asked  Astrid, 
suddenly. 

"I  imagine  he  will  lie  outside  on  the  sand.  He 
will  be  too  anxious  to  go  away  from  here." 

"I  suppose  it  is  best  for  him  to  come  in,"  said 
Astrid. 

"  Dearest  child,  you  cannot  want  to  see  him.  He 
can  get  along  out  there  if  I  give  him  a  blanket. " 


ROMANCE   OF  A   FISHERMAN'S   WIFE     17 1 

She  let  him  actually  sleep  out  on  the  sand  that 
night,  thinking  it  best  for  Astrid  not  to  see  him. 
And  with  her  she  talked  and  talked,  and  kept  her, 
not  by  force,  but  by  cleverness,  not  by  persuasion, 
but  by  real  goodness. 

But  when  she  had  at  last  succeeded  in  keeping 
her  daughter-in-law  for  her  son,  and  had  got  the 
young  people  reconciled,  and  had  taught  Astrid 
that  her  vocation  in  life  was  just  to  be  Borje 
Nilsson's  wife  and  to  make  him  as  happy  as  she 
could,  —  and  that  had  not  been  the  work  of  one 
evening,  but  of  many  days,  —  then  the  old  woman 
had  laid  herself  down  to  die. 

And  in  that  life,  with  its  faithful  solicitude  for 
her  son,  there  was  some  meaning,  thought  Borje 
Nilsson's  wife. 

But  in  her  own  life  she  saw  no  meaning.  Her 
husband  was  drowned  after  a  few  years  of  married 
life,  and  her  one  child  died  young.  She  had  not 
been  able  to  make  any  change  in  her  husband.  She 
had  not  been  able  to  teach  him  earnestness  and 
truth.  It  was  rather  in  her  the  change  showed,  after 
she  had  been  more  and  more  with  the  fishing  people. 
She  would  never  see  any  of  her  own  family,  for  she 
was  ashamed  that  she  now  resembled  in  everything 
a  fisherman's  wife.  If  it  had  only  been  of  any  use! 
If  she,  who  lived  by  mending  the  fishermen's  nets, 
knew  why  she  clung  so  to  life!  If  she  had  made 
any  one  happy  or  had  improved  anybody! 

It  never  occurred  to  her  to  think  that  she  who 
considers  her  life  a  failure  because  she  has  done  no 
good  to  others,  perhaps  by  that  thought  of  humility 
has  saved  her  own  soul. 


HIS    MOTHER'S    PORTRAIT 


HIS   MOTHER'S   PORTRAIT 

IN  one  of  the  hundred  houses  of  the  fishing-village, 
where  each  is  exactly  like  the  other  in  size  and 
shape,  where  all  have  just  as  many  windows  and  as 
high  chimneys,  lived  old  Mattsson,  the  pilot. 

In  all  the  rooms  of  the  fishing-village  there  is  the 
same  sort  of  furniture,  on  all  the  window-sills  stand 
the  same  kinds  of  flowers,  in  all  the  corner-cup- 
boards are  the  same  collections  of  sea-shells  and 
coral,  on  all  the  walls  hang  the  same  pictures.  And 
it  is  a  fixed  old  custom  that  all  the  inhabitants  of 
the  fishing-village  live  the  same  life.  Since  Matts- 
son, the  pilot,  had  grown  old,  he  had  conformed 
carefully  to  the  conditions  and  customs;  his  house, 
his  rooms  and  his  mode  of  living  were  like  every- 
body else's. 

On  the  wall  over  the  bed  old  Mattsson  had  a 
picture  of  his  mother.  One  night  he  dreamed  that 
the  portrait  stepped  down  from  its  frame,  placed 
itself  in  front  of  him  and  said  with  a  loud  voice: 
"You  must  marry,  Mattson." 

Old  Mattsson  then  began  to  make  clear  to  his 
mother  that  it  was  impossible.  He  was  seventy 
years  old.  —  But  his  mother's  portrait  merely  re- 
peated with  even  greater  emphasis:  "You  must 
marry,  Mattsson. " 

Old  Mattsson  had  great  respect  for  his  mother's 
portrait.  It  had  been  his  adviser  on  many  debatable 
occasions,  and  he  had  always  done  well  by  obeying 


INVISIBLE  LINKS 

it.  But  this  time  he  did  not  quite  understand  its 
behavior.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  picture  was 
acting  in  opposition  to  its  already  acknowledged 
opinions.  Although  he  was  lying  there  and  dream- 
ing, he  remembered  distinctly  and  clearly  what  had 
happened  the  first  time  he  wished  to  be  married. 
Just  as  he  was  dressing  as  a  bridegroom,  the  nail 
gave  way  on  which  the  picture  hung  and  it  fell  to 
the  floor.  He  understood  then  that  the  portrait 
wished  to  warn  him  against  the  marriage,  but  he  did 
not  obey  it.  He  soon  found  that  the  portrait  had 
been  right.  His  short  married  life  was  very 
unhappy. 

The  second  time  he  dressed  as  a  bridegroom  the 
same  thing  happened.  The  portrait  fell  to  the 
ground  as  before,  and  he  did  not  dare  again  to  dis- 
obey it.  He  ran  away  from  bride  and  wedding  and 
travelled  round  the  world  several  times  before  he 
dared  come  home  again.  —  And  now  the  picture 
stepped  down  from  the  wall  and  commanded  him  to 
marry!  However  good  and  obedient  he  was,  he 
allowed  himself  to  think  that  it  was  making  a  fool 
of  him. 

But  his  mother's  portrait,  which  looked  out  with 
the  grimmest  face  that  sharp  winds  and  salt  sea-foam 
could  carve,  stood  solemnly  as  before.  And  with  a 
voice  which  had  been  exercised  and  strengthened  for 
many  years  by  offering  fish  in  the  town  market- 
place, it  repeated:  "You  must  marry,  Mattsson." 

Old  Mattsson  then  asked  his  mother's  portrait  to 
consider  what  kind  of  a  community  it  was  they 
lived  in. 

All  the  hundred  houses  of  the  fishing-village  had 
pointed  roofs  and  whitewashed  walls;  all  the  boats 


HIS  MOTHER'S  PORTRAIT  1 77 

of  the  fishing-village  were  of  the  same  build  and 
rig.  No  one  there  ever  did  anything  unusual.  His 
mother  would  have  been  the  first  to  oppose  such  a 
marriage  if  she  had  been  alive.  His  mother  had 
held  by  habits  and  customs.  And  it  was  not  the 
habit  and  custom  of  the  fishing-village  for  old  men 
of  seventy  years  to  marry. 

His  mother's  picture  stretched  out  her  beringed 
hand  and  positively  commanded  him  to  obey.  There 
had  always  been  something  excessively  awe-inspir- 
ing in  his  mother  when  she  came  in  her  black  silk 
dress  with  many  flounces.  The  big,  shining  gold 
brooch,  the  heavy,  rattling  gold  chain  had  always 
frightened  him.  If  she  had  worn  her  market-clothes, 
in  a  striped  head-cloth  and  with  an  oil-cloth  apron, 
covered  with  fish-scales  and  fish  eyes,  he  would 
not  have  been  quite  so  overawed  by  her.  The  end 
of  it  was  that  he  promised  to  get  married.  And 
then  his  mother's  portrait  crept  up  into  the  frame 
again. 

The  next  morning  old  Mattsson  woke  in  great 
trouble.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  disobey  his 
mother's  portrait;  it  knew  of  course  what  was  best 
for  him.  But  he  shuddered  nevertheless  at  the  time 
that  was  now  coming. 

The  same  day  he  made  an  offer  of  marriage  to 
the  plainest  daughter  of  the  poorest  fisherman,  a 
little  creature,  whose  head  was  drawn  down  between 
her  shoulders  and  who  had  a  projecting  under-jaw. 
The  parents  said  yes,  and  the  day  when  he  was  to 
go  to  the  town  and  publish  the  bans  was  appointed. 

The  road  from  the  fishing-village  to  the  town 
passes  over  windy  marshes  and  swampy  cow-pastures. 
It  is  two  miles  long,  and  there  is  a  tradition  that 


178  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

the  inhabitants  of  the  fishing-village  are  so  rich 
that  they  could  pave  it  with  shining  silver  coins.  It 
would  give  the  road  a  strange  attraction.  Glimmer- 
ing like  a  fish's  belly,  it  would  wind  with  its  white 
scales  through  clumps  of  sedge  and  pools  filled 
with  water-bugs  and  melancholy  bullfrogs.  The 
daisies  and  almond-blossoms  which  adorn  that  for- 
saken ground  would  be  mirrored  in  the  shining 
silver  coins;  thistles  would  stretch  out  protecting 
thorns  over  them,  and  the  wind  would  find  a  ringing 
sounding-board  when  it  played  on  the  thatched  roof 
of  the  cow-barns  and  on  telephone-wires. 

Perhaps  old  Mattsson  would  have  found  some 
comfort  if  he  could  have  set  his  heavy  sea  boots  on 
ringing  silver,  for  it  is  certain  that  he  for  a  time 
had  to  go  that  way  oftener  than  he  liked. 

He  had  not  had  "clean  papers."  The  bans  could 
not  be  published.  It  came  from  his  having  run 
away  from  his  bride  the  last  time.  Some  time 
passed  before  the  clergyman  could  write  to  the 
consistory  about  him  and  get  permission  for  him  to 
contract  a  new  marriage. 

As  long  as  this  time  of  waiting  lasted,  old  Matts- 
son came  to  the  town  every  week.  He  sat  by  the 
door  of  the  pastor's  room  and  remained  there  in 
silent  expectation  until  all  had  spoken  in  turn. 
Then  he  rose  and  asked  if  the  clergyman  had  any- 
thing for  him.  No,  he  had  nothing. 

The  pastor  was  amazed  at  the  power  that  all- 
conquering  love  had  acquired  over  that  old  man. 
There  he  sat  in  a  thick,  knitted  jersey,  high  sea- 
boots  and  weather-beaten  sou'wester  with  a  sharp, 
clever  face  and  long,  gray  hair,  and  waited  for  per- 
mission to  get  married.  The  clergyman  thought  it 


HIS  MOTHER'S  PORTRAIT  1/9 

strange  that  the  old  fisherman  should  have  been 
seized  by  so  eager  a  longing. 

"  You  are  in  a  hurry  with  this  marriage,  Mattsson," 
said  the  clergyman. 

" Oh  yes,  it  is  best  to  get  it  done  soon." 

"Could  you  not  just  as  well  give  up  the  whole 
thing?  You  are  no  longer  young,  Mattsson." 

The  clergyman  must  not  be  too  surprised.  He 
knew  well  enough  that  he  was  too  old,  but  he  was 
obliged  to  be  married.  There  was  no  help  for  it. 

So  he  came  again  week  after  week  for  a  half  year, 
until  at  last  the  permission  came. 

During  all  that  time  old  Mattsson  was  a  persecuted 
man.  Round  the  green  drying-place,  where  the 
brown  fish-nets  were  hung  out,  along  the  cemented 
walls  by  the  harbor,  at  the  fish-tables  in  the  market, 
where  cod  and  crabs  were  sold,  and  far  out  in  the 
sound  among  the  shoals  of  herring,  raged  a  storm  of 
wonder  and  laughter. 

"  So  he  is  going  to  be  married,  he,  Mattsson,  who 
ran  away  from  his  own  wedding!" 

Neither  bride  nor  groom  were  spared. 

But  the  worst  thing  for  him  was  that  no  one  could 
laugh  more  at  the  whole  thing  than  he  himself.  No 
one  could  find  it  more  ridiculous.  His  mother's 
portrait  was  driving  him  mad. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  first  time  of  asking. 
Old  Mattsson,  still  pursued  by  talk  and  wonderings, 
went  out  on  the  long  breakwater  as  far  as  the  white- 
washed lighthouse,  in  order  to  be  alone.  He  found 
his  betrothed  there.  She  sat  and  wept. 

He  asked  her  whether  she  would  have  liked  some 
one  else  better.  She  sat  and  pried  little  bits  of 


180  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

mortar  from  the  lighthouse  wall  and  threw  them 
into  the  water,  answering  nothing  at  first. 

"  Was  there  nobody  you  liked  ? " 

"  Oh  no,  of  course  not. " 

It  is  very  beautiful  out  by  the  lighthouse.  The 
clear  water  of  the  sound  laps  about  it.  The  low- 
lying  shore,  the  little  uniform  houses  of  the  fishing- 
village,  and  the  distant  town  are  all  shining  in 
wonderful  beauty.  Out  of  the  soft  mist  that  hovers 
on  the  western  horizon  a  fishing-boat  comes  gliding 
now  and  again.  Tacking  boldly,  it  steers  towards 
the  harbor.  The  water  roars  gaily  past  its  bow  as 
it  shoots  in  through  the  narrow  harbor  entrance. 
The  sail  drops  silently  at  the  same  moment.  The 
fishermen  swing  their  hats  in  joyous  greeting,  and 
on  the  bottom  of  the  boat  lies  the  glittering  spoil. 

A  boat  came  into  the  harbor  while  old  Mattsson 
stood  out  by  the  lighthouse.  A  young  man  sitting 
at  the  tiller  lifted  his  hat  and  nodded  to  the  girl. 
The  old  man  saw  that  her  eyes  were  shining. 

"  Well,"  he  thought,  "  have  you  fallen  in  love  with 
the  handsomest  young  fellow  in  the  fishing-village  ? 
Yes,  you  will  never  get  him.  You  may  just  as  well 
marry  me  as  wait  for  him. " 

He  saw  that  he  could  not  escape  his  mother's 
picture.  If  the  girl  had  cared  for  any  one  whom 
there  was  any  possibility  of  getting,  he  would  have 
had  a  good  motive  to  be  rid  of  the  whole  business. 
But  now  it  was  useless  to  set  her  free. 

A  fortnight  later  was  the  wedding,  and  a  few 
days  after  came  the  big  November  gale.  One  of 
the  boats  of  the  fishing-village  was  swept  out  into 
the  sound.  It  had  neither  rudder  npr  masts,  so  that 


HIS  MOTHER'S  PORTRAIT  l8l 

it  was  quite  unmanageable.  Old  Mattsson  and  five 
others  were  on  board,  and  they  drifted  about  with- 
out food  for  two  days.  When  they  were  rescued, 
they  were  in  a  state  of  exhaustion  from  hunger  and 
cold.  Everything  in  the  boat  was  covered  with  ice, 
and  their  wet  clothes  were  stiff.  Old  Mattsson  was 
so  chilled  that  he  never  was  well  again.  He  lay  ill 
for  two  years;  then  death  came. 

Many  thought  that  it  was  strange  that  his  idea  of 
marrying  came  just  before  the  unlucky  adventure, 
for  the  little  woman  he  had  got  took  good  care  of 
him.  What  would  he  have  done  if  he  had  been 
alone  when  lying  so  helpless  ?  The  whole  fishing- 
village  acknowledged  that  he  had  never  done  any- 
thing more  sensible  than  marrying,  and  the  little 
woman  won  great  consideration  for  the  tenderness 
with  which  she  took  care  of  her  husband. 

"She  will  have  no  trouble  in  marrying  again," 
people  said. 

Old  Mattsson  told  his  wife,  every  day  while  he 
lay  ill,  the  story 'of  the  portrait. 

"  You  must  take  it  when  I  am  dead,  just  as  you 
must  take  everything  of  mine,"  he  said. 

"  Do  not  speak  of  such  things. " 

"And  you  must  listen  to  my  mother's  portrait 
when  the  young  men  propose  to  you.  Truly  there 
is  no  one  in  the  whole  fishing-village  who  under- 
stands getting  married  better  than  that  picture." 


A    FALLEN    KING 


A  FALLEN   KING 

Mine  was  the  kingdom  of  fancy,  now  I  am  a  fallen  king. 

SNOILSKY. 

THE  wooden  shoes  clattered  in  uneasy  measure 
on  the  pavements.  The  street  boys  hurried 
by.  They  shouted,  they  whistled.  The  houses 
shook,  and  from  the  courts  the  echo  rushed  out  like 
a  chained  dog  from  his  kennel. 

Faces  appeared  behind  the  window-panes.  Had 
anything  happened  ?  Was  anything  going  on  ?  The 
noise  passed  on  towards  the  suburbs.  The  servant 
girls  hastened  after,  following  the  street  boys.  They 
clasped  their  hands  and  screamed :  "  Preserve  us, 
preserve  us!  Is  it  murder,  is  it  fire?"  No  one 
answered.  The  clattering  was  heard  far  away. 

After  the  maids  came  hurrying  wise  matrons  of 
the  town.  They  asked:  "What  is  it?  What  is 
disturbing  the  morning  calm  ?  Is  it  a  wedding?  Is 
it  a  funeral?  Is  it  a  conflagration?  What  is  the 
watchman  doing?  Shall  the  town  burn  up  before 
he  begins  to  sound  the  alarm  ?  " 

The  whole  crowd  stopped  before  the  shoemaker's 
little  house  in  the  suburbs,  the  little  house  that 
had  vines  climbing  about  the  doors  and  windows, 
and  in  front,  between  street  and  house,  a  yard-wide 
garden.  Summer-houses  of  straw,  arbors  fit  for  a 
mouse,  paths  for  a  kitten.  Everything  in  the  best 
of  order!  Peas  and  beans,  roses  and  lavender,  a 


1 86  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

mouthful  of  grass,  three  gooseberry  bushes  and  an 
apple-tree. 

The  street  boys  who  stood  nearest  stared  and  con- 
sulted. Through  the  shining,  black  window-panes 
their  glances  penetrated  no  further  than  to  the  white 
lace  curtains.  One  of  the  boys  climbed  up  on  the 
vines  and  pressed  his  face  against  the  pane.  "What 
do  you  see?"  whispered  the  others.  "What  do  you 
see?"  The  shoemaker's  shop  and  the  shoemaker's 
bench,  grease-pots  and  bundles  of  leather,  lasts  and 
pegs,  rings  and  straps.  "Don't  you  see  anybody?" 
He  sees  the  apprentice,  who  is  repairing  a  shoe. 
Nobody  else,  nobody  else?  Big,  black  flies  crawl 
over  the  pane  and  make  his  sight  uncertain.  "Do 
you  see  nobody  except  the  apprentice  ? "  Nobody. 
The  master's  chair  is  empty.  He  looked  once, 
twice,  three  times ;  the  master's  chair  was  empty. 

The  crowd  stood  still,  guessing  and  wondering. 
So  it  was  true;  the  old  shoemaker  had  absconded. 
Nobody  would  believe  it.  They  stood  and  waited 
for  a  sign.  The  cat  came  out  on  the  steep  roof. 
He  stretched  out  his  claws  and  slid  down  to  the 
gutter.  Yes,  the  master  was  away,  the  cat  could 
hunt  as  he  pleased.  The  sparrows  fluttered  and 
chirped,  quite  helpless. 

A  white  chicken  looked  round  the  corner  of  the 
house.  He  was  almost  full-grown.  His  comb 
shone  red  as  wine.  He  peered  and  spied,  crowed 
and  called.  The  hens  came,  a  row  of  white  hens 
at  full  speed,  bodies  rocking,  wings  fluttering, 
yellow  legs  like  drumsticks.  The  hens  hopped 
among  the  stacked  peas.  Battles  began.  Envy 
broke  out.  A  hen  fled  with  a  full  pea-pod.  Two 
cocks  pecked  her  in  the  neck.  The  cat  left  the 


A   FALLEN  KING  187 

sparrow  nests  to  look  on.  Plump,  there  he  fell 
down  in  the  midst  of  the  flock.  The  hens  fled  in 
a  long,  scurrying  line.  The  crowd  thought:  "It 
must  be  true  that  the  shoemaker  has  run  away.  One 
can  see  by  the  cat  and  the  hens  that  the  master  is 
away. " 

The  uneven  street,  muddy  from  the  autumn  rains, 
resounded  with  talk.  Doors  stood  open,  windows 
swung.  Heads  were  put  together  in  wondering 
whisperings.  "  He  has  run  off ."  The  people  whis- 
pered, the  sparrows  chirped,  the  wooden  shoes  clat- 
tered :  "  He  has  run  away.  The  old  shoemaker  has 
run  away.  The  owner  of  the  little  house,  the  young 
wife's  husband,  the  father  of  the  beautiful  child, 
he  has  run  away.  Who  can  understand  it  ?  who  can 
explain  it  ? " 

There  is  an  old  song:  "Old  husband  in  the  cot- 
tage ;  young  lover  in  the  wood ;  wife,  who  runs 
away,  child  who  cries;  home  without  a  mistress." 
The  song  is  old.  It  is  often  sung.  Everybody 
understands  it. 

This  was  a  new  song.  The  old  man  was  gone. 
On  the  workshop  table  lay  his  explanation,  that  he 
never  meant  to  come  back.  Beside  it  a  letter  had 
also  lain.  The  wife  had  read  it,  but  no  one  else. 

The  young  wife  was  in  the  kitchen.  She  was 
doing  nothing.  The  neighbors  went  backwards  and 
forwards,  arranging  busily,  set  out  the  cups,  made 
up  the  fire,  boiled  the  coffee,  wept  a  little  and  wiped 
away  the  tears  with  the  dish-towel. 

The  good  women  of  the  quarter  sat  stiffly  about 
the  walls.  They  knew  what  was  suitable  in  a  house 
of  mourning.  They  kept  silent  by  force,  mourned 
by  force.  They  celebrated  their  holiday  by  sup- 


1 88  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

porting  the  forsaken  wife  in  her  grief.  Coarse 
hands  lay  quiet  in  their  laps,  weather-beaten  skin 
lay  in  deep  wrinkles,  thin  lips  were .  pressed  to- 
gether over  toothless  jaws. 

The  wife  sat  among  the  bronze-hued  women, 
gently  blonde,  with  a  sweet  face  like  a  dove.  She 
did  not  weep,  but  she  trembled.  She  was  so  afraid, 
that  the  fear  was  almost  killing  her.  She  bit  her 
teeth  together,  so  that  no  one  should  hear  how  they 
chattered.  When  steps  were  heard,  when  the  clat- 
tering sounded,  when  some  one  spoke  to  her,  she 
started  up. 

She  sat  with  her  husband's  letter  in  her  pocket. 
She  thought  of  now  one  line  in  it  and  now  another. 
There  stood :  "  I  can  bear  no  longer  to  see  you 
both."  And  in  another  place:  "I  know  now  that 
you  and  Erikson  mean  to  elope. "  And  again :  "  You 
shall  not  do  that,  for  people's  evil  talk  would  make 
you  unhappy.  I  shall  disappear,  so  that  you  can 
get  a  divorce  and  be  properly  married.  Erikson  is  a 
good  workman  and  can  support  you  well."  Then 
farther  down :  "  Let  people  say  what  they  will  about 
me.  I  am  content  if  only  they  do  not  think  any 
evil  of  you,  for  you  could  not  bear  it." 

She  did  not  understand  it.  She  had  not  meant  to 
deceive  him.  Even  if  she  had  liked  to  chat  with 
the  young  apprentice,  what  had  her  husband  to  do 
with  that  ?  Love  is  an  illness,  but  it  is  not  mortal. 
She  had  meant  to  bear  it  through  life  with  patience. 
How  had  her  husband  discovered  her  most  secret 
thoughts  ? 

She  was  tortured  at  the  thought  of  him !  He 
must  have  grieved  and  brooded.  He  had  wept  over 
his  years.  He  had  raged  over  the  young  man's 


A    FALLEN  KING  189 

strength  and  spirits.  He  had  trembled  at  the  whis- 
perings, at  the  smiles,  at  the  hand  pressures.  In 
burning  madness,  in  glowing  jealousy,  he  had  made 
it  into  a  whole  elopement  history,  of  which  there 
was  as  yet  nothing. 

She  thought  how  old  he  must  have  been  that  night 
when  he  went.  His  back  was  bent,  his  hands 
shook.  The  agony  of  many  long  nights  had  made 
him  so.  He  had  gone  to  escape  that  existence  of 
passionate  doubting. 

She  remembered  other  lines  in  the  letter:  "It  is 
not  my  intention  to  destroy  your  character.  I  have 
always  been  too  old  for  you. "  And  then  another : 
"  You  shall  always  be  respected  and  honored.  Only 
he  silent,  and  all  the  shame  will  fall  on  me!" 

The  wife  felt  deeper  and  deeper  remorse.  Was 
it  possible  that  people  would  be  deceived  ?  Would 
it  do  to  lie  so  too  before  God?  Why  did  she  sit  in 
the  cottage,  pitied  like  a  mourning  mother,  honored 
like  a  bride  on  her  wedding  day?  Why  was  it  not 
she  who  was  homeless,  friendless,  despised?  How 
can  such  things  be?  How  can  God  let  himself  be 
so  deceived  ? 

Over  the  great  dresser  hung  a  little  bookcase. 
On  the  top  shelf  stood  a  big  book  with  brass  clasps. 
Behind  those  clasps  was  hidden  the  story  of  a  man 
and  a  woman  who  lied  before  God  and  men.  "Who 
has  suggested  to  you,  woman,  to  do  such  things? 
Look,  young  men  stand  outside  to  lead  you  away. " 

The  woman  stared  at  the  book,  listened  for  the 
young  men's  footsteps.  She  trembled  at  every 
knock,  shuddered  at  every  step.  She  was  ready  to 
stand  up  and  confess,  ready  to  fall  down  and 
die. 


190  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

The  coffee  was  ready.  The  women  glided  sedately 
forward  to  the  table.  They  filled  their  cups,  took 
a  lump  of  sugar  in  their  mouths  and  began  to  sip 
their  boiling  coffee,  silently  and  decently,  the  wives 
of  mechanics  first,  the  scrub-women  last.  But  the 
wife  did  not  see  what  was  going  on.  Remorse  made 
her  quite  beside  herself.  She  had  a  vision.  She 
sat  at  night  out  in  a  freshly  ploughed  field.  Round 
about  her  sat  great  birds  with  mighty  wings  and 
pointed  beaks.  They  were  gray,  scarcely  percep- 
tible against  the  gray  ground,  but  they  held  watch 
over  her.  They  were  passing  sentence  upon  her. 
Suddenly  they  flew  up  and  sank  down  over  her  head. 
She  saw  their  sharp  claws,  their  pointed  beaks,  their 
beating  wings  coming  nearer  and  nearer.  It  was 
like  a  deadly  rain  of  steel.  She  bent  her  head  and 
knew  that  she  must  die.  But  when  they  came  near, 
quite  near  to  her,  she  had  to  look  up.  Then  she 
saw  that  the  gray  birds  were  all  these  old  women. 

One  of  them  began  to  speak.  She  knew  what  was 
proper,  what  was  fitting  in  a  house  of  mourning. 
They  had  now  been  silent  long  enough.  But  the 
wife  started  up  as  from  a  blow.  What  did  the 
woman  mean  to  say?  "You,  Matts  Wik's  wife, 
Anna  Wik,  confess!  You  have  lied  long  enough 
before  God  and  before  us.  We  are  your  judges. 
We  will  judge  you  and  rend  you  to  pieces." 

No,  the  woman  began  to  speak  of  husbands.  And 
the  others  chimed  in,  as  the  occasion  demanded. 
What  was  said  was  not  in  the  husbands'  praise. 
All  the  evil  husbands  had  done  was  dragged  for- 
ward. It  was  as  consolation  for  a  deserted  wife. 

Injury  was  heaped  upon  injury.  Strange  beings 
these  husbands !  They  beat  us,  they  drink  up  our 


A   FALLEN  KING  191 

money,    they   pawn   our  furniture.     Why  on  earth 
had  Our  Lord  created  them? 

The  tongues  became  like  dragons'  fangs;  they 
spat  venom,  they  spouted  fire.  Each  one  added  her 
word.  Anecdotes  were  piled  upon  anecdotes.  A 
wife  fled  from  her  home  before  a  drunken  husband. 
Wives  slaved  for  idle  husbands.  Wives  were  de- 
serted for  other  women.  The  tongues  whistled  like 
whip  lashes.  The  misery  of  homes  was  laid  bare. 
Long  litanies  were  read.  From  the  tyranny  of  the 
husband  deliver  us,  good  Lord ! 

Illness  and  poverty,  the  children's  death,  the 
winter's  cold,  trouble  with  the  old  people,  every- 
thing was  the  husband's  fault.  The  slaves  hissed 
at  their  masters.  They  turned  their  stings  against 
them,  before  whose  feet  they  crept. 

The  deserted  wife  felt  how  it  cut  and  stabbed  in 
her  ears.  She  dared  to  defend  the  incorrigible 
ones.  "My  husband,"  she  said,  "is  good."  The 
women  started  up,  hissed  and  snorted.  "He  has 
run  away.  He  is  no  better  than  anybody  else.  He, 
who  is  an  old  man,  ought  to  know  better  than  to  run 
away  from  wife  and  child.  Can  you  believe  that  he 
is  better  than  the  others?  " 

The  wife  trembled ;  she  felt  as  if  she  was  being 
dragged  through  prickly  bramble-bushes.  Her  hus- 
band considered  a  sinner !  She  flushed  with  shame, 
wished  to  speak,  but  was  silent.  She  was  afraid; 
she  had  not  the  power.  But  why  did  God  keep 
silent?  Why  did  God  let  such  things  be? 

If  she  should  take  the  letter  and  read  it  aloud, 
then  the  stream  of  poison  would  be  turned.  The 
venom  would  sprinkle  upon  her.  The  horror  of 
death  came  over  her.  She  did  not  dare.  She  half 


192  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

wished  that  an  insolent  hand  had  been  thrust  into 
her  pocket  and  had  drawn  out  the  letter.  She  could 
not  give  herself  as  a  prize.  Within  the  workshop 
was  heard  a  shoemaker's  hammer.  Did  no  one  hear 
how  it  hammered  in  triumph  ?  She  had  heard  that 
hammering  and  had  been  vexed  by  it  the  whole  day. 
But  none  of  the  women  understood  it.  Omniscient 
God,  hast  Thou  no  servant  who  could  read  hearts  ? 
She  would  gladly  accept  her  sentence,  if  only  she 
did  not  need  to  confess.  She  wished  to  hear  some 
one  say:  "Who  has  given  you  the  idea  to  lie  before 
God  ? "  She  listened  for  the  sound  of  the  young 
men's  footsteps  in  order  to  fall  down  and  die. 

Several  years  after  this  a  divorced  woman  was 
married  to  a  shoemaker,  who  had  been  apprentice  to 
her  husband.  She  had  not  wished  it,  but  had  been 
drawn  to  it,  as  a  pickerel  is  drawn  to  the  side  of  a 
boat  when  it  has  been  caught  on  the  line.  The 
fisherman  lets  it  play.  He  lets  it  rush  here  and 
there.  He  lets  it  believe  it  is  free.  But  when  it 
is  tired  out,  when  it  can  do  no  more,  then  he  drags 
with  a  light  pull,  then  he  lifts  it  up  and  jerks  it 
down  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat  before  it  knows 
what  it  is  all  about. 

The  wife  of  the  absconded  shoemaker  had  dis- 
missed her  apprentice  and  wished  to  live  alone. 
She  had  wished  to  show  her  husband  that  she  was 
innocent.  But  where  was  her  husband  ?  Did  he 
not  care  for  her  faithfulness.  She  suffered  want. 
Her  child  went  in  rags.  How  long  did  her  husband 
think  that  she  could  wait?  She  was  unhappy  when 
she  had  no  one  upon  whom  she  could  depend.  . 

Erikson  succeeded.     He  had  a  shop  in  the  town. 


A   FALLEN  KING  193 

His  shoes  stood  on  glass  shelves  behind  broad 
plate-glass  windows.  His  workshop  grew.  He 
hired  an  apartment  and  put  plush  furniture  in  the 
parlor.  Everything  waited  only  for  her.  When  she 
was  too  wearied  of  poverty,  she  came. 

She  was  very  much  afraid  in  the  beginning.  But 
no  misfortunes  befell  her.  She  became  more  con- 
fident as  time  went  on  and  more  happy.  She  had 
people's  regard,  and  knew  within  herself  that  she 
had  not  deserved  it.  That  kept  her  conscience 
awake,  so  that  she  became  a  good  woman. 

Her  first  husband,  after  some  years,  came  back 
to  the  house  in  the  suburbs.  It  was  still  his,  and 
he  settled  down  again  there  and  wished  to  begin 
work.  But  he  got  no  work,  nor  would  anybody 
have  anything  to  do  with  him.  He  was  despised, 
while  his  wife  enjoyed  great  honor.  It  was  never- 
theless he  who  had  done  right,  and  she  who  had 
done  wrong. 

The  husband  kept  his  secret,  but  it  almost  suffo- 
cated him.  He  felt  how  he  sank,  because  every- 
body considered  him  bad.  No  one  had  any  confidence 
in  him,  no  one  would  trust  any  work  to  him.  He 
took  what  company  he  could  get,  and  learned  to 
drink. 

While  he  was  going  down  hill,  the  Salvation  Army 
came  to  the  town.  It  hired  a  big  hall  and  began 
its  work.  From  the  very  first  evening  all  the  loafers 
gathered  at  the  meetings  to  make  a  disturbance. 
When  it  had  gone  on  for  about  a  week,  Matts  Wik 
came  too  to  take  part  in  the  fun. 

There  was  a  crowd  in  the  street,  a  crowd  in  the 
door-way.  Sharp  elbows  and  angry  tongues  were 
there;  street  boys  and  soldiers,  maids  and  scrub- 

13 


194  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

women;  peaceable  police  and  stormy  rabble.  The 
army  was  new  and  the  fashion.  The  well-to-do  and 
the  wharf-rats,  everybody  went  to  the  Salvation 
Army.  Within,  the  hall  was  low-studded.  At  the 
farthest  end  was  an  empty  platform ;  unpainted 
benches,  borrowed  chairs,  an  uneven  floor,  blotches 
on  the  ceiling,  lamps  that  smoked.  The  iron  stove 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  gave  out  warmth  and  coal 
gas.  All  the  places  were  filled  in  a  moment. 
Nearest  the  platform  sat  the  women,  demure  as  if 
in  church,  and  back  of  them  workmen  and  sewing- 
women.  Farthest  away  sat  the  boys  on  one  another's 
knees,  and  in  the  door-way  there  was  a  fight  among 
those  who  could  not  get  in. 

The  platform  was  empty.  The  clock  had  not 
struck,  the  entertainment  had  not  begun.  One 
whistled,  one  laughed.  The  benches  were  kicked 
to  pieces.  "The  War-cry"  flew  like  a  kite  between 
the  groups.  The  public  were  enjoying  themselves. 

A  side-door  opened.  Cold  air  streamed  into  the 
room.  The  fire  flamed  up.  There  was  silence. 
Attentive  expectation  filled  the  hall.  At  last  they 
came,  three  young  women,  carrying  guitars  and 
with  faces  almost  hidden  by  broad-brimmed  hats. 
They  fell  on  their  knees  as  soon  as  they  had  ascended 
the  steps  of  the  platform. 

One  of  them  prayed  aloud.  She  lifted  her  head, 
but  closed  her  eyes.  Her  voice  cut  like  a  knife. 
During  the  prayer  there  was  silence.  The  street 
boys  and  loafers  had  not  yet  begun.  They  were 
waiting  for  the  confessions  and  the  inspiring  music. 

The  women  settled  down  to  their  work.  They 
sang  and  prayed,  sang  and  preached.  They  smiled 
and  spoke  of  their  happiness.  In  front  of  them  they 


A   FALLEN  KING  195 

had  an  audience  of  ruffians.  They  began  to  rise, 
they  climbed  upon  the  benches.  A  threatening 
noise  passed  through  the  throng.  The  women  on 
the  platform  caught  glimpses  of  dreadful  faces 
through  the  smoky  air.  The  men  had  wet,  dirty 
clothes,  which  smelt  badly.  They  spat  tobacco 
every  other  second,  swore  with  every  word.  Those 
women,  who  were  to  struggle  with  them,  spoke  of 
their  happiness. 

How  brave  that  little  army  was!  Ah,  is  it  not 
beautiful  to  be  brave?  Is  it  not  something  to  be 
proud  of  to  have  God  on  one's  side?  It  was  not 
worth  while  to  laugh  at  them  in  their  big  hats.  It 
was  most  probable  that  they  would  conquer  the  hard 
hands,  the  cruel  faces,  the  blaspheming  lips. 

"Sing  with  us!"  cried  the  Salvation  Army 
soldiers ;  "  sing  with  us  !  It  is  good  to  sing. "  They 
started  a  well-known  melody.  They  struck  their 
guitars  and  repeated  the  same  verse  over  and  over. 
They  got  one  or  two  of  those  sitting  nearest  to  join 
in,  but  now  sounded  down  by  the  door  a  light  street- 
song.  Notes  struggled  against  notes,  words  against 
words,  guitar  against  whistle.  The  women's  strong, 
trained  voices  contested  with  the  boys'  hoarse  fal- 
setto, with  the  men's  growling  bass.  When  the 
street  song  was  almost  conquered,  they  began  to 
stamp  and  whistle  down  by  the  door.  The  Salva- 
tion Army  song  sank  like  a  wounded  warrior.  The 
noise  was  terrifying.  The  women  fell  on  their 
knees. 

They  knelt  as  if  powerless.  Their  eyes  were 
closed.  Their  bodies  rocked  in  silent  pain.  The 
noise  died  down.  The  Salvation  Army  captain 
began  instantly:  "Lord,  all  these  Thou  wilt  make 


196  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Thine  own.  We  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  Thou  wilt 
lead  them  all  into  Thy  host!  We  thank  Thee, 
Lord,  that  it  is  granted  to  us  to  lead  them  to 
Thee ! " 

The  crowd  hissed,  howled,  screamed.  It  was  as 
if  all  those  throats  had  been  tickled  by  a  sharp 
knife.  It  was  as  if  the  people  had  been  afraid  to  be 
won  over,  as  if  they  had  forgotten  that  they  had 
come  there  of  their  own  will. 

But  the  woman  continued,  and  it  was  her  sharp, 
piercing  voice  which  conquered.  They  had  to 
hear. 

"You  shout  and  scream;  the  old  serpent  within 
you  is  twisting  and  raging.  But  that  is  just  the 
sign.  Blessings  on  the  old  serpent's  roarings!  It 
shows  that  he  is  tortured,  that  he  is  afraid.  Laugh 
at  us !  Break  our  windows !  Drive  us  away  from 
the  platform !  To-morrow  you  will  belong  to  us. 
We  shall  possess  the  earth.  How  can  you  with- 
stand us?  How  can  you  withstand  God?" 

Then  the  captain  commanded  one  of  her  comrades 
to  come  forward  and  make  her  confession.  She 
came  smiling.  She  stood  brave  and  undaunted  and 
told  the  story  of  her  sin  and  her  conversion  to  the 
mockers.  Where  had  that  kitchen-girl  learned  to 
stand  smiling  under  all  that  scorn?  Some  of  those 
who  had  come  to  scoff  grew  pale.  Where  had  these 
women  found  their  courage  and  their  strength? 
Some  one  stood  behind  them. 

The  third  woman  stepped  forward.  She  was  a 
beautiful  child,  daughter  of  rich  parents,  with  a 
sweet,  clear  voice.  She  did  not  tell  of  herself. 
Her  testimony  was  one  of  the  usual  songs. 

It  was  like  the  shadow  of  a  victory.     The  audience 


A   FALLEN  KING  197 

forgot  itself  and  listened.  The  child  was  lovely  to 
look  at,  sweet  to  hear.  But  when  she  ceased,  the 
noise  became  even  more  dreadful.  Down  by  the 
door  they  built  a  platform  of  benches,  climbed  up 
and  confessed. 

It  became  worse  and  worse  in  the  hall.  The  stove 
became  red-hot,  devoured  air  and  belched  heat.  The 
respectable  women  on  the  front  benches  looked 
about  for  a  way  to  escape,  but  there  was  no  possi- 
bility of  getting  out.  The  soldiers  on  the  platform 
perspired  and  wilted.  They  cried  and  prayed  for 
strength.  Suddenly  a  breath  came  through  the  air, 
a  whisper  reached  their  ear.  They  knew  not  from 
where,  but  they  felt  a  change.  God  was  with  them. 
He  fought  for  them. 

To  the  struggle  again  !  The  captain  stepped  for- 
ward and  lifted  the  Bible  over  her  head.  Stop,  stop ! 
We  feel  that  God  is  working  among  us.  A  conver- 
sion is  near.  Help  us  to  pray!  God  will  give  us  a 
soul. 

They  fell  on  their  knees  in  silent  prayer.  Some 
in  the  hall  joined  in  the  prayer.  All  felt  an  intense 
expectation.  Was  it  true?  Was  something  great 
taking  place  in  a  fellow-creature's  soul,  here,  in 
their  midst  ?  Should  it  be  granted  to  them  to  see 
it  ?  Could  it  be  influenced  by  these  women  ? 

For  the  moment  the  crowd  was  won.  They  were 
now  just  as  eager  for  a  miracle  as  lately  for  blas- 
phemy. No  one  dared  to  move.  All  panted  from 
excitement,  but  nothing  happened.  "  O  God,  Thou 
forsakest  us  !  Thou  f orsakest  us,  O  God ! " 

The  beautiful  salvation  soldier  began  to  sing. 
She  chose  the  mildest  of  melodies:  "Oh,  my 
beloved,  wilt  Thou  not  come  soon  ? " 


198  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Touching  as  a  praying  child,  the  song  entered 
their  souls  —  like  a  caress,  like  a  blessing. 

The  crowd  was  silent,  wrapped  in  those  notes. 
"Mountains  and  forests  long,  heaven  and  earth 
languish.  Man,  everything  in  the  world,  thirsts 
that  you  shall  open  your  soul  to  the  light.  Then 
glory  will  spread  over  the  earth,  then  the  beasts 
will  rise  up  from  their  degradation. 

"  Oh,  my  beloved,  wilt  thou  not  come  soon  ? " 

"  It  is  not  true  that  thou  dost  linger  in  lofty  halls. 
In  the  dark  wood,  in  miserable  hovels  thou  dwellest. 
And  thou  wilt  not  come.  My  bright  heaven  does 
not  tempt  thee. 

"  Oh,  my  beloved,  wilt  thou  not  come  soon  ?  " 

In  the  hall  more  and  more  began  to  sing  the 
burden.  Voice  after  voice  joined  in.  They  did 
not  rightly  know  what  words  they  used.  The  tune 
was  enough.  All  their  longing  could  sing  itself 
free  in  those  tones.  They  sang,  too,  down  by  the 
door.  Hearts  were  bursting.  Wills  were  subdued. 
It  no  longer  sounded  like  a  pitiful  lament,  but 
strong,  imperative,  commanding. 

"  Oh,  my  beloved,  wilt  thou  not  come  soon  ?  " 

Down  by  the  door,  in  the  worst  of  the  crowd, 
stood  Matts  Wik.  He  looked  much  intoxicated, 
but  that  evening  he  had  not  drunk.  He  stood  and 
thought.  "  If  I  might  speak,  if  I  might  speak ! " 

It  was  the  strangest  room  he  had  ever  seen,  the 
most  wonderful  chance.  A  voice  seemed  to  say  to 
him :  "  These  are  the  rushes  to  which  you  can  whis- 
per, the  waves  which  will  bear  your  voice." 

The  singers  started.  It  was  as  if  they  had  heard 
a  lion  roar  in  their  ears.  A  mighty,  terrible  voice 
spoke  dreadful  words. 


A   FALLEN  KING  199 

It  scoffed  at  God.  Why  did  men  serve  God  ?  He 
forsook  all  those  who  served  him.  He  had  failed 
his  own  son.  God  helped  no  one. 

The  voice  grew  louder,  more  like  a  roar  every 
minute.  No  one  could  have  believed  that  human 
lungs  could  have  such  strength.  No  one  had  ever 
heard  such  ravings  burst  from  bruised  heart.  All 
bent  their  heads  like  wanderers  in  the  desert,  when 
the  storm  beats  on  them. 

Terrible,  terrible  words !  They  were  like  thunder- 
ing hammer-strokes  against  God's  throne.  Against 
Him  who  had  tortured  Job,  who  had  let  the  martyrs 
surfer,  who  let  those  who  professed  his  faith  burn  at 
the  stake. 

A  few  had  at  first  tried  to  laugh.  Some  of  them 
had  thought  that  it  was  a  joke.  But  now  they 
heard,  quaking,  that  it  was  in  earnest.  Already 
some  rose  up  to  flee  to  the  platform.  They  asked 
the  protection  of  the  Salvation  Army  from  him  who 
drew  down  upon  them  the  wrath  of  God. 

The  voice  asked  them  in  hissing  tones  what 
rewards  they  expected  for  their  trouble  in  serving 
God.  They  need  not  count  on  heaven.  God  was 
not  freehanded  with  His  heaven.  A  man,  he  said, 
had  done  more  good  than  was  needed  to  be  blessed. 
He  had  brought  greater  offerings  than  God  de- 
manded. But  then  he  had  been  tempted  to  sin. 
Life  is  long.  He  paid  out  his  hard-earned  grace 
already  in  this  world.  He  would  go  the  way  of  the 
damned. 

The  speech  was  the  terrifying  north-wind,  which 
drives  the  ship  into  the  harbor.  While  the  scoffer 
spoke,  women  rushed  up  to  the  platform.  The  Sal- 
vation Army  soldiers'  hands  were  embraced  and 


200  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

kissed;  they  were  scarcely  able  to  receive  them  all. 
The  boys  and  the  old  men  praised  God. 

He  who  spoke  continued.  The  words  intoxicated 
him.  He  said  to  himself:  "I  speak,  I  speak,  at  last 
I  speak.  I  tell  them  my  secret,  and  yet  I  do  not 
tell  them."  For  the  first  time  since  he  made  the 
great  sacrifice  he  was  free  from  care. 

It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  height  of  the 
summer.  The  town  looked  like  a  desert  of  stones, 
like  a  moon  landscape.  There  was  not  a  cat  to  be 
seen,  nor  a  sparrow,  hardly  a  fly  on  the  sunny  wall. 
Not  a  chimney  smoked.  There  was  not  a  breath  of 
air  in  the  sultry  streets.  The  whole  was  only  a 
stony  field,  out  of  which  grew  stone  walls. 

Where  were  the  dogs  and  the  people?  Where 
were  the  young  ladies  in  narrow  skirts  and  wide 
sleeves,  long  gloves  and  red  sunshades?  Where 
were  the  soldiers  and  the  fine  people,  the  Salvation 
Army  and  the  street  boys  ? 

Whither  had  all  those  gay  picnickers  gone  in  the 
dewy  cool  of  the  morning,  all  the  baskets  and  accor- 
dions and  bottles,  which  the  steamer  landed?  And 
what  had  happened  to  the  procession  of  Good 
Templars?  Banners  fluttered,  drums  thundered, 
boys  swarmed,  stamped,  and  hurrahed.  Or  what 
had  happened  to  the  blue  awnings  under  which  the 
little  ones  slept  while  father  and  mother  pushed 
them  solemnly  up  the  street. 

All  were  on  their  way  out  to  the  wood.  They 
complained  of  the  long  streets.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
stone  houses  followed  them.  At  last,  at  last  they 
caught  a  glimpse  of  green.  And  just  outside  of  the 
town,  where  the  road  wound  over  flat,  moist  fields, 


A    FALLEN  KING  2OI 

where  the  song  of  the  lark  sounded  loudest,  where 
the  clover  steamed  with  honey,  there  lay  the  first  of 
those  left  behind ;  heads  in  the  moss,  noses  in  the 
grass.  Bodies  bathed  in  sunshine  and  fragrance, 
souls  refreshed  with  idleness  and  rest. 

On  the  way  to  the  wood  toiled  bicyclists  and 
bearers  of  luncheon  baskets.  Boys  came  with  trowels 
and  shiny  knapsacks.  Girls  danced  in  clouds  of 
dust.  Sky  and  banners  and  children  and  trumpets. 
Mechanics  and  their  families  and  crowds  of  laborers. 
The  rearing  horses  of  an  omnibus  waved  their  fore- 
legs over  the  crowd.  A  young  man,  half  drunk, 
jumped  up  on  the  wheel.  He  was  pulled  down,  and 
lay  kicking  on  his  back  in  the  dust  of  the  road. 

In  the  wood  a  nightingale  trilled  and  sang,  piped 
and  gurgled.  The  birches  were  not  thriving,  their 
trunks  were  black.  The  beeches  built  high  temples, 
layer  upon  layer  of  streaky  green.  A  toad  sat  and 
took  aim  with  its  tongue.  It  caught  a  fly  at  every 
shot.  A  hedgehog  trotted  about  in  the  dried,  rust- 
ling beech  leaves.  Dragon-flies  darted  about  with 
glittering  wings.  The  people  sat  down  around  the 
luncheon-baskets.  The  piping,  chirping  crickets 
tried  to  make  their  Sunday  a  glad  one. 

Suddenly  the  hedgehog  disappeared,  terrified  he 
rolled  himself  up  in  his  prickles.  The  crickets 
crept  into  the  grass,  quite  silenced.  The  nightin- 
gale sang  as  if  its  throat  would  burst.  It  was 
guitars,  guitars.  The  Salvation  Army  marched  for- 
ward under  the  beeches.  The  people  started  up 
from  their  rest  under  the  trees.  The  dancing-green 
and  croquet-ground  were  deserted.  The  swings  and 
merry-go-rounds  had  an  hour's  rest.  Everybody  fol- 
lowed to  the  Salvation  Army's  camp.  The  benches 


202  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

filled,  and  listeners  sat  on  every  hillock.  The  army 
had  waxed  strong  and  powerful.  About  many  a 
fair  cheek  was  tied  the  Salvation  Army  hat.  Many 
a  strong  man  wore  the  red  shirt.  There  was  peace 
and  order  in  the  crowd.  Bad  words  did  not  venture 
to  pass  the  lips.  Oaths  rumbled  harmlessly  behind 
teeth.  And  Matts  Wik,  the  shoemaker,  the  terrible 
blasphemer,  stood  now  as  standard-bearer  by  the 
platform.  He,  too,  was  one  of  the  believers.  The 
red  flag  caressed  his  gray  head. 

The  Salvation  Army  soldiers  had  not  forgotten 
the  old  man.  They  had  him  to  thank  for  their  first 
victory.  They  had  come  to  him  in  his  loneliness. 
They  washed  his  floor  and  mended  his  clothes. 
They  did  not  refuse  to  associate  with  him.  And  at 
their  meetings  he  was  allowed  to  speak. 

Ever  since  he  had  broken  his  silence  he  was 
happy.  He  stood  no  longer  as  an  enemy  of  God. 
There  was  a  raging  power  in  him.  He  was  happy 
when  he  could  let  it  out.  When  souls  were  shaken 
by  his  lion  voice,  he  was  happy. 

He  spoke  always  of  himself.  He  always  told  his 
own  story.  He  described  the  fate  of  the  misjudged. 
He  spoke  of  sacrifices  of  life  itself,  made  without  a 
hope  of  reward,  without  acknowledgment.  He  dis- 
guised what  he  related.  He  told  his  secret  and  yet 
did  not  tell  it. 

He  became  a  poet.  He  had  the  power  of  winning 
hearts.  For  his  sake  crowds  gathered  in  front  of 
the  Salvation  Army  platform.  He  drew  them  by 
the  fantastic  images  which  filled  his  diseased  brain. 
He  captivated  them  with  the  words  of  affecting 
lament,  which  the  oppression  of  his  heart  had 
taught  him. 


A    FALLEN  KING  203 

Perhaps  his  spirit  in  days  of  old  had  visited  this 
world  of  death  and  change.  Perhaps  he  had  then 
been  a  mighty  skald,  skilful  in  playing  on  heart- 
strings. But  for  some  evil  deed  he  had  been  con- 
demned to  begin  again  his  earthly  life,  to  live  by 
the  work  of  his  hands,  without  the  knowledge  of  the 
strength  of  his  spirit.  But  now  his  grief  had  broken 
his  spirit's  chains.  His  soul  was  a  newly  released 
bird.  Timid  and  confused,  but  still  rejoicing  in  its 
freedom,  it  flew  onward  over  the  old  battle-fields. 

The  wild,  ignorant  singer,  the  black  thrush,  which 
had  grown  among  starlings,  listened  diffidently  to 
the  words  which  came  to  his  lips.  Where  did  he 
get  the  power  to  compel  the  crowd  to  listen  in 
ecstasy  to  his  speech  ?  Where  did  he  get  the  power 
to  force  proud  men  down  upon  their  knees,  wringing 
their  hands?  He  trembled  before  he  began  to 
speak.  Then  a  quiet  confidence  came  over  him. 
From  the  inexhaustible  depths  of  his  suffering  rose 
ever  torrents  of  agonized  words. 

Those  speeches  were  never  printed.  They  were 
hunting-cries,  ringing  trumpet-notes,  rousing,  ani- 
mating, terrifying,  urgent;  not  to  capture,  not  to 
give  again.  They  were  lightning  flashes  and  roll- 
ing thunder.  They  shook  hearts  with  terrible 
alarms.  But  they  were  transient,  never  could  they 
be  caught.  The  cataract  can  be  measured  to  its  last 
drop,  the  dizzy  play  of  foam  can  be  painted,  but  not 
the  elusive,  delirious,  swift,  growing,  mighty  stream 
of  those  speeches. 

That  day  in  the  wood  he  asked  the  gathering  if 
they  knew  how  they  should  serve  God  ?  —  as  Uria 
served  his  king. 

Then   he,    the  man    in  the  pulpit,  became  Uria. 


204  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

He  rode  through  the  desert  with  the  letter  of  his 
king.  He  was  alone.  The  solitude  terrified  him. 
His  thoughts  were  gloomy.  But  he  smiled  when 
he  thought  of  his  wife.  The  desert  became  a  flower- 
ing meadow  when  he  remembered  his  wife.  Springs 
gushed  up  from  the  ground  at  the  thought  of  her. 

His  camel  fell.  His  soul  was  filled  with  fore- 
bodings of  evil.  Misfortune,  he  thought,  is  a  vul- 
ture, which  loves  the  desert.  He  did  not  turn,  but 
went  onward  with  the  king's  letter.  He  trod  upon 
thorns.  He  walked  among  serpents  and  scorpions. 
He  thirsted  and  hungered.  He  saw  caravans  drag 
their  dark  length  through  the  sands.  He  did  not 
join  them.  He  dared  not  seek  strangers.  He,  who 
bears  a  royal  letter,  must  go  alone.  He  saw  at 
eventide  the  white  tents  of  shepherds.  He  was 
tempted,  as  if  by  his  wife's  smiling  dwelling.  He 
thought  he  saw  white  veils  waving  to  him.  He 
turned  away  from  the  tents  out  into  solitude.  Woe 
to  him  if  they  had  stolen  the  letter  of  his  king ! 

He  hesitates  when  he  sees  searching  brigands 
pursuing  him.  He  thinks  of  the  king's  letter.  He 
reads  it  in  order  to  then  destroy  it.  He  reads  it, 
and  finds  new  courage.  Stand  up,  warrior  of  Judah ! 
He  does  not  destroy  the  letter.  He  does  not  give 
himself  up  to  the  robbers.  He  fights  and  conquers. 
And  so  onward,  onward !  He  bears  his  sentence  of 
death  through  a  thousand  dangers.  .  .  . 

It  is  so  God's  will  shall  be  obeyed  through 
tortures  unto  death.  .  .  . 

While  Wik  spoke,  his  divorced  wife  stood  and 
listened  to  him.  She  had  gone  out  to  the  wood  that 
morning,  beaming  and  contented  on  her  husband's 
arm,  most  matron-like,  respectable  in  every  fold. 


A   FALLEN  KING  205 

Her  daughter  and  the  apprentice  carried  the  luncheon- 
basket.  The  maid  followed  with  the  youngest  child. 
There  had  been  nothing  but  content,  happiness, 
calm. 

There  they  had  lain  in  a  thicket.  They  had 
eaten  and  drunk,  played  and  laughed.  Never  a 
thought  of  the  past !  Conscience  was  as  silent  as 
a  satisfied  child.  In  the  beginning,  when  her  first 
husband  had  slunk  half  drunk  by  her  window,  she 
had  felt  a  prick  in  her  soul. 

Then  she  had  heard  that  he  had  become  the  idol 
of  the  Salvation  Army.  She  was,  therefore,  quite 
calm.  Now  she  had  come  to  hear  him.  And  she 
understood  him.  He  was  not  speaking  of  Uria;  he 
was  telling  about  himself.  He  was  writhing  at  the 
thought  of  his  own  sacrifice.  He  tore  bits  from  his 
own  heart  and  threw  them  out  among  the  people. 
She  knew  that  rider  in  the  desert,  that  conqueror  of 
brigands.  And  that  unappeased  agony  stared  at  her 
like  an  open  grave.  .  .  . 

Night  came.  The  wood  was  deserted.  Fare- 
well, grass  and  flowers !  Wide  heaven,  a  long  fare- 
well! Snakes  began  to  crawl  about  the  tufts  of 
grass.  Turtles  crept  along  the  paths.  The  wood 
was  ugly.  Everybody  longed  to  be  back  in  the 
stone  desert,  the  moon  landscape.  That  is  the 
place  for  men. 

Dame  Anna  Erikson  invited  all  her  old  friends. 
The  mechanics'  wives  from  the  suburbs  and  the 
poorer  scrub-women  came  to  her  for  a  cup  of  coffee. 
The  same  were  there  who  had  been  with  her  on  the 
day  of  her  desertion.  One  was  new,  Maria  Ander- 
son, the  captain  of  the  Salvation  Army. 


206  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Anna  Erikson  had  now  been  many  times  to  the 
Salvation  Army.  She  had  heard  her  husband.  He 
always  told  about  himself.  He  disguised  his  story. 
She  recognized  it  always.  He  was  Abraham.  He 
was  Job.  He  was  Jeremiah,  whom  the  people  threw 
into  a  well.  He  was  Elisha,  whom  the  children  at 
the  wayside  reviled. 

That  pain  seemed  bottomless  to  her.  His  sorrow 
seemed  to  her  to  borrow  all  voices,  to  make  itself 
masks  of  everything  it  met.  She  did  not  under- 
stand that  her  husband  talked  himself  well,  that 
pleasure  in  his  power  of  fancy  played  and  smiled  in 
him. 

She  had  dragged  her  daughter  with  her.  The 
daughter  had  not  wished  to  go.  She  was  serious, 
modest,  and  conscientious.  Nothing  of  youth  played 
in  her  veins.  She  was  born  old. 

She  had  grown  up  in  shame  of  her  father.  She 
walked  upright,  austere,  as  if  saying :  "  Look,  the 
daughter  of  a  man  who  is  despised!  Look  if  my 
dress  is  soiled !  Is  there  anything  to  blame  in  my 
conduct  ? "  Her  mother  was  proud  of  her.  Yet 
sometimes  she  sighed.  "Alas!  if  my  daughter's 
hands  were  less  white,  perhaps  her  caresses  would 
be  warmer ! " 

The  girl  sat  scornfully  smiling.  She  despised 
theatricals.  When  her  father  rose  up  to  speak,  she 
wished  to  go.  Her  mother's  hand  seized  hers,  fast 
as  a  vice.  The  girl  sat  still.  The  torrent  of  words 
began  to  roar  over  her.  But  that  which  spoke  to 
her  was  not  so  much  the  words  as  her  mother's 
hand. 

That  hand  writhed,  convulsions  passed  through 
it.  It  lay  in  hers  limp,  as  if  dead ;  it  caught  wildly 


A   FALLEN  KING  207 

about,  hot  with  fever.     Her  mother's  face  betrayed 
nothing;  only  her  hand  suffered  and  struggled. 

The  old  speaker  described  the  martyrdom  of 
silence.  The  friend  of  Jesus  lay  ill.  His  sisters 
sent  a  message  to  him ;  but  his  time  had  not 
come.  For  the  sake  of  God's  kingdom  Lazarus  must 
die. 

He  now  let  all  doubting,  all  slander  be  heaped 
upon  Christ.  He  described  his  suffering.  His 
own  compassion  tortured  him.  He  passed  through 
the  agony  of  death,  he  as  well  as  Lazarus.  Still  he 
had  to  keep  silence. 

Only  one  word  had  he  needed  to  say  to  win  back 
the  respect  of  his  friends.  He  was  silent.  He  had 
to  hear  the  lamentations  of  the  sisters.  He  told 
them  the  truth  in  words  which  they  did  not  under- 
stand. Enemies  mocked  at  him. 

And  so  on  always  more  and  more  affecting. 

Anna  Erikson's  hand  still  lay  in  that  of  her 
daughter.  It  confessed  and  acknowledged:  "The 
man  there  bears  the  martyr's  crown  of  silence.  He 
is  wrongly  accused.  With  a  word  he  could  set  him- 
self free." 

The  girl  followed  her  mother  home.  They  went 
in  silence.  The  girl's  face  was  like  stone.  She 
was  pondering,  searching  for  everything  which 
memory  could  tell  her.  Her  mother  looked  anxiously 
at  her.  What  did  she  know  ? 

The  next  day  Anna  Erikson  had  her  coffee  party. 
The  talk  turned  on  the  day's  market,  on  the  price 
of  wooden  shoes,  on  pilfering  maids.  The  women 
chatted  and  laughed.  They  poured  their  coffee  into 
the  saucer.  They  were  mild  and  unconcerned. 
Anna  Erikson  could  not  understand  why  she  had 


208  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

been  afraid  of  them,  why  she  had  always  believed 
that  they  would  judge  her. 

When  they  were  provided  with  their  second  cup, 
when  they  sat  delighted  with  the  coffee  trembling 
on  the  edge  of  their  cups,  and  their  saucers  were 
filled  with  bread,  she  began  to  speak.  Her  words 
were  a  little  solemn,  but  her  voice  was  calm. 

"  Young  people  are  imprudent.  A  girl  who  marries 
without  thinking  seriously  of  what  she  is  doing  can 
come  to  great  grief.  Who  has  met  with  worse 
than  I?" 

They  all  knew  it.  They  had  been  with  her  and 
had  mourned  with  her. 

"Young  people  are  imprudent.  One  holds  one's 
tongue  when  one  ought  to  speak,  for  shame's  sake. 
One  dares  not  to  speak  for  fear  of  what  people  will 
say.  He  who  has  not  spoken  at  the  right  time  may 
have  to  repent  it  a  whole  lifetime." 

They  all  believed  that  this  was  true. 

She  had  heard  Wik  yesterday  as  well  as  many 
times  before.  Now  she  must  tell  them  all  some- 
thing about  him.  An  aching  pain  came  over  her 
when  she  thought  of  what  he  had  suffered  for  her 
sake.  Still  she  thought  that  he,  who  had  been  old, 
ought  to  have  had  more  sense  than  to  take  her,  a 
young  girl,  for  his  wife. 

"  I  did  not  dare  to  say  it  in  my  youth.  But  he 
went  away  from  me  out  of  pity,  for  he  thought  that  I 
wanted  to  have  Erikson.  I  have  his  letter  about  it." 

She  read  the  letter  aloud  for  them.  A  tear  glided 
demurely  down  her  cheek. 

"He  had  seen  falsely  in  his  jealousy.  Between 
Erikson  and  me  there  was  nothing  then.  It  was 
four  years  before  we  were  married;  but  I  will  say  it 


A   FALLEN  KING  209 

now,  for  Wik  is  too  good  to  be  misjudged.  He  did 
not  run  away  from  wife  and  child  from  light  motives, 
but  with  good  intention.  I  want  this  to  be  known 
everywhere.  Captain  Anderson  will  perhaps  read 
the  letter  aloud  at  the  meeting.  I  wish  Wik  to  be 
redressed.  I  know,  too,  that  I  have  been  silent  too 
long,  but  one  does  not  like  to  give  up  everything 
for  a  drunkard.  Now  it  is  another  matter." 

The  women  sat  as  if  turned  to  stone.  Anna 
Erikson,  her  voice  trembling  a  little,  said  with  a 
faint  smile,  — 

"  Now  perhaps  you  will  never  care  to  come  to  see 
me  again  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes  indeed !  You  were  so  young !  It  was 
nothing  which  you  could  help.  —  It  was  his  fault  for 
having  such  ideas." 

She  smiled.  These  were  the  hard  beaks  which 
would  have  torn  her  to  pieces.  The  truth  was  not 
dangerous  nor  lying  either.  The  young  men  were 
not  waiting  outside  her  door. 

Did  she  know  or  did  she  not  know  that  her  eldest 
daughter  had  that  very  morning  left  her  home  and 
had  gone  to  her  father? 

The  sacrifice  which  Matts  Wik  had  made  to  save 
his  wife's  honor  became  known.  He  was  admired; 
he  was  derided.  His  letter  was  read  aloud  at  the 
meeting.  Some  of  those  present  wept  with  emotion. 
People  came  and  pressed  his  hands  on  the  street. 
His  daughter  moved  to  his  house. 

For  several  evenings  after  he  was  silent  at  the 
meetings.  He  felt  no  inspiration.  At  last  they 
asked  him  to  speak.  He  mounted  the  platform, 
folded  his  hands  together  and  began. 

14 


210  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

When  he  had  said  a  couple  of  words  he  stopped, 
confused.  He  did  not  recognize  his  own  voice. 
Where  was  the  lion's  roar?  Where  the  raging 
north  wind?  And  where  the  torrent  of  words ?  He 
did  not  understand,  could  not  understand. 

He  staggered  back.  "I  cannot,"  he  muttered. 
"  God  gives  me  no  strength  to  speak  yet. "  He  sat 
down  on  a  bench  and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 
He  gathered  all  his  powers  of  thought  to  discover 
first  what  he  wanted  to  talk  about.  Did  he  have  to 
consider  so  in  the  old  days?  Could  he  consider 
now?  His  head  whirled. 

Perhaps  it  would  go  if  he  should  stand  up  again, 
place  himself  where  he  was  accustomed  to  stand, 
and  begin  with  his  usual  prayer.  He  tried.  His 
face  turned  ashy-gray.  All  glances  were  turned 
towards  him.  A  cold  sweat  trickled  down  his  fore- 
head. He  found  not  a  word  on  his  lips. 

He  sat  down  in  his  place  and  wept,  moaning 
heavily.  The  gift  was  taken  from  him.  He  tried 
to  speak,  tried  silently  to  himself.  What  should  he 
talk  about.  His  sorrow  was  taken  from  him.  He 
had  nothing  to  say  to  people  which  he  was  not 
allowed  to  tell  them.  He  had  no  secret  to  dis- 
guise. He  did  not  need  to  romance.  Romance 
left  him. 

It  was  the  agony  of  death ;  it  was  a  struggle  for 
life.  He  wished  to  hold  fast  that  which  was  already 
gone.  He  wished  to  have  his  grief  again  in  order 
to  be  able  again  to  speak.  His  grief  was  gone;  he 
could  not  get  it  back. 

He  staggered  forward  like  a  drunken  man  to  the 
platform  again  and  again.  He  stammered  out  a 
few  meaningless  words.  He  repeated  like  a  lesson 


A   FALLEN  KING  211 

learned  by  heart  what  he  had  heard  others  say.  He 
tried  to  imitate  himself.  He  looked  for  devotion 
in  the  glances,  for  trembling  silence,  quickening 
breaths.  He  perceived  nothing.  That  which  had 
been  his  joy  was  taken  from  him. 

He  sank  back  into  the  darkness.  He  cursed,  that 
he  by  his  discourse  had  converted  his  wife  and 
daughter.  He  had  possessed  the  most  precious  of 
gifts  and  lost  it.  His  pain  was  extreme.  — But  it 
is  not  by  such  grief  that  genius  lives. 

He  was  a  painter  without  hands,  a  singer  who  had 
lost  his  voice.  He  had  only  spoken  of  his  sorrow. 
What  should  he  speak  of  now? 

He  prayed:  "O  God,  when  honor  is  dumb,  and 
misjudgment  speaks,  give  me  back  misjudgment ! 
When  happiness  is  dumb,  but  sorrow  speaks,  give 
me  back  sorrow  !  " 

But  the  crown  was  taken  from  him.  He  sat  there, 
more  miserable  than  the  most  miserable,  for  he  had 
been  cast  down  from  the  heights  of  life.  He  was  a 
fallen  king. 


A    CHRISTMAS    GUEST 


A   CHRISTMAS    GUEST 

ONE  of  those  who  had  lived  the  life  of  a  pen- 
sioner at  Ekeby  was  little  Ruster,  who  could 
transpose  music  and  play  the  flute.  He  was  of  low 
origin  and  poor,  without  home  and  without  rela- 
tions. Hard  times  came  to  him  when  the  company 
of  pensioners  were  dispersed. 

He  then  had  no  horse  nor  carriole,  no  fur  coat 
nor  red-painted  luncheon-basket.  He  had  to  go  on 
foot  from  house  to  house  and  carry  his  belongings 
tied  in  a  blue  striped  cotton  handkerchief.  He  but- 
toned his  coat  all  the  way  up  to  his  chin,  so  that 
no  one  should  need  to  know  in  what  condition 
his  shirt  and  waistcoat  were,  and  in  its  deep 
pockets  he  kept  his  most  precious  possessions :  his 
flute  taken  to  pieces,  his  flat  brandy  bottle  and  his 
music-pen. 

His  profession  was  to  copy  music,  and  if  it  had 
been  as  in  the  old  days,  there  would  have  been  no 
lack  of  work  for  him.  But  with  every  passing  year 
music  was  less  practised  in  Varmland.  The  guitar, 
with  its  mouldy,  silken  ribbon  and  its  worn  screws, 
and  the  dented  horn,  with  faded  tassels  and  cord 
were  put  away  in  the  lumber-room  in  the  attic,  and 
the  dust  settled  inches  deep  on  the  long,  iron-bound 
violin  boxes.  Yet  the  less  little  Ruster  had  to  do 
with  flute  and  music-pen,  so  much  the  more  must 
he  turn  to  the  brandy  flask,  and  at  last  he  became 
quite  a  drunkard.  It  was  a  great  pity. 


2l6  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

He  was  still  received  at  the  manor-houses  as  an 
old  friend,  but  there  were  complaints  when  he 
came  and  joy  when  he  went.  There  was  an  odor 
of  dirt  and  brandy  about  him,  and  if  he  had  only  a 
couple  of  glasses  of  wine  or  one  toddy,  he  grew  con- 
fused and  told  unpleasant  stories.  He  was  the 
torment  of  the  hospitable  houses. 

One  Christmas  he  came  to  Lofdala,  where  Lilje- 
krona,  the  great  violinist,  had  his  home.  Lilje- 
krona  had  also  been  one  of  the  pensioners  of  Ekeby, 
but  after  the  death  of  the  major's  wife,  he  returned 
to  his  quiet  farm  and  remained  there.  Ruster  came 
to  him  a  few  days  before  Christmas,  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  preparations,  and  asked  for  work.  Liljekrona 
gave  him  a  little  copying  to  keep  him  busy. 

"  You  ought  to  have  let  him  go  immediately,"  said 
his  wife;  "now  he  will  certainly  take  so  long  with 
that  that  we  will  be  obliged  to  keep  him  over 
Christmas." 

"He  must  be  somewhere,"  answered  Liljekrona. 

And  he  offered  Ruster  toddy  and  brandy,  sat  with 
him,  and  lived  over  again  with  him  the  whole  Ekeby 
time.  But  he  was  out  of  spirits  and  disgusted  by 
him,  like  every  one  else,  although  he  would  not  let 
it  be  seen,  for  old  friendship  and  hospitality  were 
sacred  to  him. 

In  Liljekrona's  house  for  three  weeks  now  they 
had  been  preparing  to  receive  Christmas.  They  had 
been  living  in  discomfort  and  bustle,  had  sat  up 
with  dip-lights  and  torches  till  their  eyes  grew  red, 
had  been  frozen  in  the  out-house  with  the  salting  of 
meat  and  in  the  brew-house  with  the  brewing  of  the 
beer.  But  both  the  mistress  and  the  servants  gave 
themselves  up  to  it  all  without  grumbling. 


A    CHRISTMAS   GUEST  2i; 

When  all  the  preparations  were  done  and  the 
holy  evening  come,  a  sweet  enchantment  would  sink 
down  over  them.  Christmas  would  loosen  all  tongues, 
so  that  jokes  and  jests,  rhymes  and  merriment  would 
flow  of  themselves  without  effort.  Every  one's  feet 
would  wish  to  twirl  in  the  dance,  and  from  memory's 
dark  corners  words  and  melodies  would  rise,  although 
no  one  could  believe  that  they  were  there.  And 
then  every  one  was  so  good,  so  good  ! 

Now  when  Ruster  came  the  whole  household  at 
Lofdala  thought  that  Christmas  was  spoiled.  The 
mistress  and  the  older  children  and  the  old  servants 
were  all  of  the  same  opinion.  Ruster  caused  them 
a  suffocating  disgust.  They  were  moreover  afraid 
that  when  he  and  Liljekrona  began  to  rake  up  the 
old  memories,  the  artist's  blood  would  flame  up  in 
the  great  violinist  and  his  home  would  lose  him. 
Formerly  he  had  not  been  able  to  remain  long  at 
home. 

No  one  can  describe  how  they  loved  their  master 
on  the  farm,  since  they  had  had  him  with  them  a 
couple  of  years.  And  what  he  had  to  give !  How 
much  he  was  to  his  home,  especially  at  Christmas ! 
He  did  not  take  his  place  on  any  sofa  or  rocking- 
stool,  but  on  a  high,  narrow  wooden  bench  in  the 
corner  of  the  fireplace.  When  he  was  settled  there 
he  started  off  on  adventures.  He  travelled  about 
the  earth,  climbed  up  to  the  stars,  and  even  higher. 
He  played  and  talked  by  turns,  and  the  whole  house- 
hold gathered  about  him  and  listened.  Life  grew 
proud  and  beautiful  when  the  richness  of  that  one 
soul  shone  on  it. 

Therefore  they  loved  him  as  they  loved  Christ- 
mas time,  pleasure,  the  spring  sun.  And  when 


2l8  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

little  Ruster  came,  their  Christmas  peace  was 
destroyed.  They  had  worked  in  vain  if  he  was 
coming  to  tempt  away  their  master.  It  was  unjust 
that  the  drunkard  should  sit  at  the  Christmas  table 
in  a  happy  house  and  spoil  the  Christmas  pleasure. 

On  the  forenoon  of  Christmas  Eve  little  Ruster 
had  his  music  written  out,  and  he  said  something 
about  going,  although  of  course  he  meant  to  stay. 

Liljekrona  had  been  influenced  by  the  general 
feeling,  and  therefore  said  quite  lukewarmly  and 
indifferently  that  Ruster  had  better  stay  where  he 
was  over  Christmas. 

Little  Ruster  was  inflammable  and  proud.  He 
twirled  his  moustache  and  shook  back  the  black 
artist's  hair  that  stood  like  a  dark  cloud  over  his 
head.  What  did  Liljekrona  mean  ?  Should  he  stay 
because  he  had  nowhere  else  to  go?  Oh,  only  think 
how  they  stood  and  waited  for  him  in  the  big  iron- 
works in  the  parish  of  Bro !  The  guest-room  was  in 
order,  the  glass  of  welcome  filled.  He  was  in  great 
haste.  He  only  did  not  know  to  which  he  ought  to 
go  first. 

"  Very  well, "  answered  Liljekrona,  "  you  may  go 
if  you  will." 

After  dinner  little  Ruster  borrowed  horse  and 
sleigh,  coat  and  furs.  The  stable-boy  from  Lofdala 
was  to  take  him  to  some  place  in  Bro  and  drive 
quickly  back,  for  it  threatened  snow. 

No  one  believed  that  he  was  expected,  or  that 
there  was  a  single  place  in  the  neighborhood  where 
he  was  welcome.  But  they  were  so  anxious  to  be 
rid  of  him  that  they  put  the  thought  aside  and  let 
him  depart.  "He  wished  it  himself,"  they  said; 
and  then  they  thought  that  now  they  would  be  glad. 


A    CHRISTMAS  GUEST  2ig 

But  when  they  gathered  in  the  dining-room  at  five 
o'clock  to  drink  tea  and  to  dance  round  the  Christ- 
mas-tree, Liljekrona  was  silent  and  out  of  spirits. 
He  did  not  seat  himself  on  the  bench ;  he  touched 
neither  tea  nor  punch ;  he  could  not  remember  any 
polka;  the  violin  was  out  of  order.  Those  who 
could  play  and  dance  had  to  do  it  without  him. 

Then  his  wife  grew  uneasy;  the  children  were 
discontented,  everything  in  the  house  went  wrong. 
It  was  the  most  lamentable  Christmas  Eve. 

The  porridge  turned  sour;  the  candles  sputtered; 
the  wood  smoked ;  the  wind  stirred  up  the  snow  and 
blew  bitter  cold  into  the  rooms.  The  stable-boy 
who  had  driven  Ruster  did  not  come  home.  The 
cook  wept;  the  maids  scolded. 

Finally  Liljekrona  remembered  that  no  sheaves 
had  been  put  out  for  the  sparrows,  and  he  com- 
plained aloud  of  all  the  women  about  him  who  aban- 
doned olu  customs  and  were  new-fangled  and 
heartless.  They  understood  well  enough  that  what 
tormented  him  was  remorse  that  he  had  let  little 
Ruster  go  away  from  his  home  on  Christmas 
Eve. 

After  a  while  he  went  to  his  room,  shut  the  door 
and  began  to  play  as  he  had  not  played  since  he  had 
ceased  roaming.  It  was  full  of  hate  and  scorn,  full 
of  longing  and  revolt.  You  thought  to  bind  me, 
but  you  must  forge  new  fetters.  You  thought  to 
make  me  as  small-minded  as  yourselves,  but  I  turn 
to  larger  things,  to  the  open.  Commonplace  people, 
slaves  of  the  home,  hold  me  prisoner  if  it  is  in  your 
power ! 

When  his  wife  heard  the  music,  she  said:  "To- 
morrow he  is  gone,  if  God  does  not  work  a  miracle 


220  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

in  the  night.  Our  inhospitableness  has  brought  on 
just  what  we  thought  we  could  avoid." 

In  the  meantime  little  Ruster  drove  about  in  the 
snowstorm.  He  went  from  one  house  to  the  other 
and  asked  if  there  was  any  work  for  him  to  do,  but 
he  was  not  received  anywhere.  They  did  not  even 
ask  him  to  get  out  of  the  sledge.  Some  had  their 
houses  full  of  guests,  others  were  going  away  on 
Christmas  Day.  "Drive  to  the  next  neighbor," 
they  all  said. 

He  could  come  and  spoil  the  pleasure  of  an  ordi- 
nary day,  but  not  of  Christmas  Eve.  Christmas 
Eve  came  but  once  a  year,  and  the  children  had 
been  rejoicing  in  the  thought  of  it  all  the  autumn. 
They  could  not  put  that  man  at  a  table  where  there 
were  children.  Formerly  they  had  been  glad  to  see 
him,  but  not  since  he  had  become  a  drunkard. 
Where  should  they  put  the  fellow,  moreover?  The 
servants'  room  was  too  plain  and  the  guest-room 
too  fine. 

So  little  Ruster  had  to  drive  from  house  to  house 
in  the  blinding  snow.  His  wet  moustache  hung 
limply  down  over  his  mouth ;  his  eyes  were  blood- 
shot and  blurred,  but  the  brandy  was  blown  out  of 
his  brain.  He  began  to  wonder  and  to  be  amazed. 
Was  it  possible,  was  it  possible  that  no  one  wished 
to  receive  him? 

Then  all  at  once  he  saw  himself.  He  saw  how 
miserable  and  degraded  he  was,  and  he  understood 
that  he  was  odious  to  people.  "It  is  the  end  of 
me,"  he  thought.  "No  more  copying  of  music,  no 
more  flute-playing.  No  one  on  earth  needs  me ;  no 
one  has  compassion  on  me." 

The   storm   whirled   and   played,    tore   apart   the 


A    CHRISTMAS  GUEST  221 

drifts  and  piled  them  up  again,  took  a  pillar  of 
snow  in  its  arms  and  danced  out  into  the  plain, 
lifted  one  flake  up  to  the  clouds  and  chased  another 
down  into  a  ditch.  "It  is  so,  it  is  so,"  said  little 
Ruster;  "while  one  dances  and  whirls  it  is  play,  but 
when  one  must  be  buried  in  the  drift  and  forgotten, 
it  is  sorrow  and  grief."  But  down  they  all  have  to 
go,  and  now  it  was  his  turn.  To  think  that  he  had 
now  come  to  the  end  ! 

He  no  longer  asked  where  the  man  was  driving 
him ;  he  thought  that  he  was  driving  in  the  land  of 
death. 

Little  Ruster  made  no  offerings  to  the  gods  that 
night.  He  did  not  curse  flute-playing  or  the  life  of 
a  pensioner;  he  did  not  think  that  it  had  been  better 
for  him  if  he  had  ploughed  the  earth  or  sewn  shoes. 
But  he  mourned  that  he  was  now  a  worn-out  instru- 
ment, which  pleasure  could  no  longer  use.  He 
complained  of  no  one,  for  he  knew  that  when  the 
horn  is  cracked  and  the  guitar  will  not  stay  in  tune, 
they  must  go.  He  became  all  at  once  a  very  humble 
man.  He  understood  that  it  was  the  end  of  him,  on 
this  Christmas  Eve.  Hunger  and  cold  would  destroy 
him,  for  he  understood  nothing,  was  good  for  noth- 
ing and  had  no  friends. 

The  sledge  stops,  and  suddenly  it  is  light  about 
him,  and  he  hears  friendly  voices,  and  there  is  some 
one  who  is  helping  him  into  a  warm  room,  and  some 
one  who  is  pouring  warm  tea  into  him.  His  coat  is 
pulled  off  him,  and  several  people  cry  that  he  is  wel- 
come, and  warm  hands  rub  life  into  his  benumbed 
fingers. 

He  was  so  confused  by  it  all  that  he  did  not  come 
to  his  senses  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  He 


222  INVISIBLE   LINKS 

could  not  possibly  comprehend  that  he  had  come 
back  to  Lofdala.  He  had  not  been  at  all  conscious 
that  the  stable-boy  had  grown  tired  of  driving  about 
in  the  storm  and  had  turned  home. 

Nor  did  he  understand  why  he  was  now  so  well 
received  in  Liljekrona's  house.  He  could  not  know 
that  Liljekrona's  wife  understood  what  a  weary 
journey  he  had  made  that  Christmas  Eve,  when  he 
had  been  turned  away  from  every  door  where  he  had 
knocked.  She  felt  such  compassion  on  him  that 
she  forgot  her  own  troubles. 

Liljekrona  went  on  with  the  wild  playing  up  in 
his  room ;  he  did  not  know  that  Ruster  had  come. 
The  latter  sat  meanwhile  in  the  dining-room  with 
the  wife  and  the  children.  The  servants,  who  used 
also  to  be  there  on  Christmas  Eve,  had  moved  out 
into  the  kitchen  away  from  their  mistress's  trouble. 

The  mistress  of  the  house  lost  no  time  in  setting 
Ruster  to  work.  "You  hear,  I  suppose,"  she  said, 
"that  Liljekrona  does  nothing  but  play  all  the 
evening,  and  I  must  attend  to  setting  the  table  and 
the  food.  The  children  are  quite  forsaken.  You 
must  look  after  these  two  smallest." 

Children  were  the  kind  of  people  with  whom  little 
Ruster  had  had  least  intercourse.  He  had  met  them 
neither  in  the  bachelor's  wing  nor  in  the  campaign 
tent,  neither  in  wayside  inns  nor  on  the  highways. 
He  was  almost  shy  of  them,  and  did  not  know  what 
he  ought  to  say  that  was  fine  enough  for  them. 

He  took  out  his  flute  and  taught  them  how  to 
finger  the  stops  and  holes.  There  was  one  of  four 
years  and  one  of  six.  They  had  a  lesson  on  the 
flute  and  were  deeply  interested  in  it.  "This  is 
A,"  he  said,  "and  this  is  C,"  and  then  he  blew  the 


A    CHRISTMAS  GUEST  22$ 

notes.  Then  the  young  people  wished  to  know 
what  kind  of  an  A  and  C  it  was  that  was  to  be 
played. 

Ruster  took  out  his  score  and  made  a  few  notes. 

"No,"  they  said,  "that  is  not  right."  And  they 
ran  away  for  an  A  B  C  book. 

Little  Ruster  began  to  hear  their  alphabet.  They 
knew  it  and  they  did  not  know  it.  What  they  knew 
was  not  very  much.  Ruster  grew  eager;  he  lifted 
the  little  boys  up,  each  on  one  of  his  knees,  and 
began  to  teach  them.  Liljekrona's  wife  went  out 
and  in  and  listened  quite  in  amazement.  It  sounded 
like  a  game,  and  the  children  were  laughing  the 
whole  time,  but  they  learned. 

Ruster  kept  on  for  a  while,  but  he  was  absent 
from  what  he  was  doing.  He  was  turning  over  the 
old  thoughts  from  out  in  the  storm.  It  was  good 
and  pleasant,  but  nevertheless  it  was  the  end  of  him. 
He  was  worn  out.  He  ought  to  be  thrown  away. 
And  all  of  a  sudden  he  put  his  hands  before  his 
face  and  began  to  weep. 

Liljekrona's  wife  came  quickly  up  to  him. 

"Ruster,"  she  said,  "I  can  understand  that  you 
think  that  all  is  over  for  you.  You  cannot  make 
a  living  with  your  music,  and  you  are  destroying 
yourself  with  brandy.  But  it  is  not  the  end, 
Ruster. " 

"Yes,"  sobbed  the  little  flute-player. 

"  Do  you  see  that  to  sit  as  to-night  with  the  chil- 
dren, that  would  be  something  for  you?  If  you 
would  teach  children  to  read  and  write,  you  would 
be  welcomed  everywhere.  That  is  no  less  important 
an  instrument  on  which  to  play,  Ruster,  than  flute 
and  violin.  Look  at  them,  Ruster ! " 


224  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

She  placed  the  two  children  in  front  of  him,  and 
he  looked  up,  blinking  as  if  he  had  looked  at  the 
sun.  It  seemed  as  if  his  little,  blurred  eyes  could 
not  meet  those  of  the  children,  which  were  big, 
clear  and  innocent. 

"Look  at  them,  Ruster!"  repeated  Liljekrona's 
wife. 

"I  dare  not,"  said  Ruster,  for  it  was  like  a  pur- 
gatory to  look  through  the  beautiful  child  eyes  to 
the  unspotted  beauty  of  their  souls. 

Liljekrona's  wife  laughed  loud  and  joyously. 
"  Then  you  must  accustom  yourself  to  them,  Ruster. 
You  can  stay  in  my  house  as  schoolmaster  this 
year. " 

Liljekrona  heard  his  wife  laugh  and  came  out  of 
his  room. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  said.     "  What  is  it  ? " 

"Nothing,"  she  answered,  "but  that  Ruster  has 
come  again,  and  that  I  have  engaged  him  as  school- 
master for  our  little  boys." 

Liljekrona  was  quite  amazed.  "Do  you  dare?" 
he  said,  "do  you  dare?  Has  he  promised  to  give 
up- 

"No,"  said  the  wife;  "Ruster  has  promised  noth- 
ing. But  there  is  much  about  which  he  must  be 
careful  when  he  has  to  look  little  children  in  the 
eyes  every  day.  If  it  had  not  been  Christmas,  per- 
haps I  would  not  have  ventured ;  but  when  our  Lord 
dared  to  place  a  little  child  who  was  his  own  son 
among  us  sinners,  so  can  I  also  dare  to  let  my  little 
children  try  to  save  a  human  soul." 

Liljekrona  could  not  speak,  but  every  feature  and 
wrinkle  in  his  face  twitched  and  twisted  as  always 
when  he  heard  anything  noble. 


A    CHRISTMAS  GUEST  22$ 

Then  he  kissed  his  wife's  hand  as  gently  as  a 
child  who  asks  for  forgiveness  and  cried  aloud :  "  All 
the  children  must  come  and  kiss  their  mother's 
hand." 

They  did  so,  and  then  they  had  a  happy  Christmas 
in  Liljekrona's  house. 


UNCLE    REUBEN 


UNCLE   REUBEN 

r  I  "'HERE  was   once,  nearly  eighty  years   ago,  a 

-L  little  boy  who  went  out  into  the  market- 
place to  spin  his  top.  The  little  boy's  name  was 
Reuben.  He  was  not  more  than  three  years  old, 
but  he  swung  his  little  whip  as  bravely  as  anybody 
and  made  the  top  spin  so  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
see  it. 

On  that  day,  eighty  years  ago,  it  was  beautiful 
spring  weather.  It  was  in  the  month  of  March,  and 
the  town  was  divided  into  two  worlds;  one  white 
and  warm,  where  the  sun  shone,  and  one  cold  and 
dark,  where  it  was  in  shadow.  The  whole  market- 
place was  in  the  sun  except  a  narrow  edge  along  one 
row  of  houses. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  little  boy,  brave  as  he 
was,  grew  tired  of  spinning  his  top  and  looked  about 
for  some  place  to  rest.  It  was  not  hard  to  find. 
There  were  no  benches  or  seats,  but  every  house 
was  supplied  with  stone  steps.  Little  Reuben 
could  not  imagine  anything  better. 

He  was  a  conscientious  little  fellow.  He  had  a 
vague  feeling  that  his  mother  did  not  like  to  have 
him  sit  on  strange  people's  steps.  His  mother  was 
poor,  but  just  on  that  account  it  must  never  look  as 
if  they  wanted  to  take  anything  of  anybody.  So  he 
went  and  sat  on  their  own  stone  steps,  for  they  also 
lived  on  the  market-place. 


230  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

The  steps  lay  in  the  shadow,  and  it  was  very  cold 
there.  The  little  fellow  leaned  his  head  against 
the  railing,  drew  up  his  legs  and  made  himself 
comfortable.  For  a  little  while  he  watched  the 
sunlight  dance  out  in  the  market-place  and  the  boys 
running  and  spinning  tops  —  then  he  shut  his  eyes 
and  went  to  sleep. 

He  must  have  slept  an  hour.  When  he  awoke  he 
did  not  feel  so  well  as  when  he  fell  asleep ;  every- 
thing felt  so  dreadfully  uncomfortable.  He  went 
in  to  his  mother  crying,  and  his  mother  saw  that  he 
was  ill  and  put  him  to  bed.  And  in  a  couple  of 
days  the  boy  was  dead. 

But  that  is  not  the  end  of  his  story.  It  hap- 
pened that  his  mother  mourned  for  him  from  the 
depths  of  her  heart  with  a  sorrow  which  defies 
years  and  death.  His  mother  had  several  other  chil- 
dren, many  cares  occupied  her  time  and  thoughts, 
but  there  was  always  a  corner  in  her  heart  where 
her  son  Reuben  dwelt  undisturbed.  He  was  ever 
alive  to  her.  When  she  saw  a  group  of  children 
playing  in  the  market-place,  he  too  was  running 
there,  and  when  she  went  about  her  house,  she 
believed  fully  and  firmly  that  the  little  boy  was 
still  sitting  and  sleeping  out  on  those  dangerous 
stone  steps.  Certainly  none  of  her  living  chil- 
dren were  so  constantly  in  her  thoughts  as  her 
dead  one. 

Some  years  after  his  death  little  Reuben  had  a 
sister,  and  when  she  grew  to  be  old  enough  to  run 
out  on  the  market-place  and  spin  tops,  it  happened 
that  she  too  sat  down  on  the  stone  steps  to  rest. 
But  her  mother  felt  instantly  as  if  some  one  had 
pulled  her  skirt.  She  came  out  and  seized  the  little 


UNCLE  REUBEN  231 

sister  so  roughly,  when  she  lifted  her  up,  that  she 
remembered  it  as  long  as  she  lived. 

And  no  less  did  she  forget  how  strange  her 
mother's  face  was  and  how  her  voice  trembled, 
when  she  said :  "  Do  you  know  that  you  once  had  a 
little  brother,  whose  name  was  Reuben,  and  he  died 
because  he  sat  on  these  stone  steps  and  caught  cold  ? 
You  do  not  want  to  die  and  leave  your  mother, 
Berta  ? " 

Brother  Reuben  soon  became  just  as  living  to  his 
brothers  and  sisters  as  to  his  mother.  She  was  able 
to  make  them  see  with  her  eyes  and  they  too  soon 
saw  him  sitting  out  on  the  stone  steps.  And  it 
naturally  never  occurred  to  them  to  sit  down  there. 
Yes,  whenever  they  saw  any  one  sitting  on  stone 
steps,  or  on  a  stone  railing,  or  on  a  stone  by  the 
roadside,  they  felt  a  prick  in  their  heart  and  thought 
of  Brother  Reuben. 

Besides,  Brother  Reuben  was  always  placed  highest 
of  all  the  children  when  they  spoke  of  him  among 
themselves.  For  they  all  knew  that  they  were  a 
troublesome  and  fatiguing  family,  who  only  gave 
their  mother  care  and  inconvenience.  They  could 
not  believe  that  she  would  grieve  much  at  losing 
any  of  them.  But  as  she  really  mourned  for  Brother 
Reuben,  it  was  certain  that  he  must  have  been  much 
better  than  they  were. 

They  would  often  think :  "  Oh,  if  we  could  only 
give  mother  as  much  joy  as  Brother  Reuben !  "  And 
yet  no  one  knew  anything  more  about  him  than  that 
he  had  played  top  and  caught  cold  on  the  stone 
steps.  But  he  must  have  been  something  wonder- 
ful, as  their  mother  had  such  a  love  for  him. 

He  was  wonderful  too;  he  was  more  of  a  joy  to 


232  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

his  mother  than  any  of  the  children.  Her  husband 
died  and  she  worked  in  care  and  want.  But  the 
children  had  so  strong  a  faith  in  their  mother's 
grief  for  the  little  three-year-old  boy,  that  they  were 
convinced  that  if  he  had  lived  she  would  not  have 
mourned  over  her  misfortunes.  And  every  time 
they  saw  their  mother  weep,  they  thought  that  it 
was  because  Brother  Reuben  was  dead,  or  because 
they  were  not  like  Brother  Reuben.  Soon  enough 
an  ever-growing  desire  was  born  in  them  to  rival 
their  little  dead  brother  in  their  mother's  affection. 
There  was  nothing  that  they  would  not  have  done 
for  her,  if  she  had  only  cared  as  much  for  them  as 
for  him.  And  it  was  on  account  of  that  longing,  I 
think,  that  Brother  Reuben  did  more  good  than  any 
of  the  other  children. 

Fancy  that  when  the  eldest  brother  had  earned  his 
first  money  by  rowing  a  stranger  over  the  river,  he 
came  and  gave  it  to  his  mother  without  reserving 
a  penny!  Then  his  mother  looked  so  happy  that 
he  swelled  with  pride,  and  could  not  help  betraying 
how  ambitious  beyond  measure  he  had  been. 

"Mother,  am  I  not  now  as  good  as  Brother 
Reuben?"  His  mother  looked  at  him  question- 
ingly.  She  seemed  as  if  she  was  comparing  his 
fresh,  glowing  face  with  the  little  pale  boy  out  on 
the  stone  steps.  And  she  would  have  liked  to  have 
answered  yes,  if  she  had  been  able,  but  she  could 
not. 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  you,  Ivan,  but  you  will  never 
be  like  Reuben." 

It  was  beyond  their  powers;  all  the  children 
realized  it,  and  yet  they  could  not  help  trying. 

They  grew  up  strong  and    capable;    they  worked 


UNCLE  REUBEN  233 

their  way  up  to  wealth  and  consideration,  while 
Brother  Reuben  only  sat  still  on  his  stone  steps. 
But  he  still  had  a  start;  he  could  not  be  overtaken. 

And  at  every  success,  every  improvement,  as  they 
by  degrees  were  able  to  offer  their  mother  a  good 
home  and  comfort,  it  had  to  be  reward  enough  for 
them  for  their  mother  to  say:  "Ah,  if  my  little 
Reuben  could  have  seen  that!" 

Brother  Reuben  followed  his  mother  through  the 
whole  of  her  life,  even  to  her  deathbed.  It  was  he 
who  robbed  the  death  pangs  of  their  sting,  since  she 
knew  that  they  bore  her  to  him.  In  the  midst  of 
her  greatest  suffering  the  mother  could  smile  at  the 
thought  that  she  was  going  to  meet  little  Reuben. 

And  so  died  one  whose  faithful  love  had  exalted 
and  deified  a  poor  little  three-year-old  boy. 

But  neither  was  that  the  end  of  little  Reuben's 
story.  To  all  the  brothers  and  sisters  he  had 
become  a  symbol  of  their  life  of  endeavor,  of  their 
love  for  their  mother,  of  all  the  touching  memories 
from  the  years  of  struggle  and  failure.  There  was 
always  something  rich  and  warm  in  their  voices 
when  they  spoke  of  him. 

So  he  also  glided  into  the  lives  of  the  children  of 
his  brothers  and  sisters.  His  mother's  love  had 
raised  him  to  greatness,  and  the  great  influence  gen- 
eration after  generation. 

Sister  Berta  had  a  son,  who  had  much  to  do  with 
Uncle  Reuben. 

He  was  four  years  old  the  day  he  sat  on  the  curb- 
stone and  stared  down  into  the  gutter.  It  was  full 
of  rain  water.  Sticks  and  straws  were  carried  past 
in  wild  swirlings  down  to  the  sea.  The  little  boy 
sat  and  looked  on  with  that  pleasant  calm  that 


234  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

people  feel  in  following  the  adventurous  existence 
of  others,  when  they  themselves  are  in  safety. 

But  his  peaceful  philosophizing  was  interrupted 
by  his  mother,  who,  the  moment  she  saw  him, 
thought  of  the  stone  steps  at  home  and  of  her 
brother. 

"Oh,  my  dear  little  boy,"  she  said,  "do  not  sit 
there !  Do  you  know  that  your  mamma  had  a  little 
brother  whose  name  was  Reuben,  and  he  was  four 
years  old  just  like  you?  He  died  because  he  sat  on 
just  such  a  curbstone  and  caught  cold. " 

The  little  boy  did  not  like  being  disturbed  in  his 
pleasant  thoughts.  He  sat  still  and  philosophized, 
while  his  yellow,  curly  hair  fell  down  into  his 
eyes. 

Berta  would  not  have  done  it  for  any  one  else,  but 
for  her  dear  brother's  sake  she  shook  her  little  boy 
quite  roughly.  And  so  he  learned  respect  for  Uncle 
Reuben. 

Another  time  this  little  yellow-haired  man  had 
fallen  on  the  ice;  he  had  been  thrown  down  out  of 
sheer  spite  by  a  big,  naughty  boy,  and  there  he  sat 
and  cried  to  show  how  badly  he  had  been  treated, 
especially  as  his  mother  could  not  be  very  far  off. 

But  he  had  forgotten  that  his  mother  was  first  and 
last  Uncle  Reuben's  sister.  When  she  caught  sight 
of  Axel  sitting  on  the  ice,  she  did  not  come  with 
anything  soothing  or  consoling,  but  only  with  that 
everlasting : 

"Do  not  sit  so,  my  little  boy!  Think  of  Uncle 
Reuben,  who  died  when  he  was  five  years  old,  just 
as  you  are  now,  because  he  sat  down  in  a  snow- 
drift." 

The  boy  stood  up  instantly  when   he  heard  her 


UNCLE  REUBEN  235 

speak  of  Uncle  Reuben,  but  he  felt  a  chill  in  his 
very  heart.  How  could  mamma  talk  about  Uncle 
Reuben  when  her  little  boy  was  in  such  distress! 
Axel  had  no  objection  to  his  sitting  and  dying 
wherever  he  pleased,  but  now  it  seemed  as  if  he 
wished  to  take  his  own  mamma  away  from  him,  and 
that  Axel  could  not  bear.  So  he  learned  to  hate 
Uncle  Reuben. 

High  up  on  the  stairway  in  Axel's  home  was  a 
stone  railing,  which  was  dizzily  beautiful  to  sit  on. 
Far  below  lay  the  stone  floor  of  the  hall,  and  he  who 
sat  astride  up  there  could  dream  that  he  was  being 
borne  along  over  abysses.  Axel  called  the  balus- 
trade the  good  steed  Grane.  On  his  back  he 
bounded  over  burning  ramparts  into  an  enchanted 
castle.  There  he  sat  proud  and  bold  with  his  long 
curls  waving,  and  fought  Saint  George's  fight  with 
the  dragon.  And  as  yet  it  had  not  occurred  to 
Uncle  Reuben  to  want  to  ride  there. 

But  of  course  he  came.  Just  as  the  dragon  was 
writhing  in  the  agony  of  death  and  Axel  sat  in  lofty 
consciousness  of  victory,  he  heard  his  nurse  call : 
"Little  Axel,  do  not  sit  there!  Think  of  Uncle 
Reuben,  who  died  when  he  was  eight  years  old, 
just  as  you  are  now,  because  he  sat  and  rode  on  a 
stone  railing.  You  must  never  sit  there  again." 

Such  a  jealous  old  pudding-head,  that  Uncle 
Reuben !  He  could  not  bear  it,  of  course,  because 
Axel  was  killing  dragons  and  rescuing  princesses. 
If  he  did  not  look  out,  he,  Axel,  would  show  that 
he  could  win  glory  too.  If  he  should  jump  down  to 
that  stone  floor  and  dash  his  brains  out,  he  would 
feel  himself  thrown  into  the  shade,  that  big  liar. 

Poor  Uncle  Reuben !     The  poor,  good  little  boy 


236  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

who  went  to  play  top  out  in  the  sunny  market- 
place! Now  he  was  to  learn  what  it  was  to  be  a 
great  man. 

It  was  in  the  country  at  Uncle  Ivan's.  A  number 
of  the  cousins  had  gathered  in  the  beautiful  garden. 
Axel  was  there,  rilled  with  his  hatred  of  his  Uncle 
Reuben.  He  was  longing  to  know  if  he  was  tor- 
menting any  other  besides  himself,  but  there  was 
something  which  made  him  afraid  to  ask.  It  was 
as  if  he  was  going  to  commit  some  sacrilege. 

At  last  the  children  were  left  to  themselves.  No 
big  people  were  present.  Then  Axel  asked  if  they 
had  ever  heard  of  Uncle  Reuben. 

He  saw  how  all  the  eyes  flashed  and  that  many 
small  fists  were  clenched,  but  it  seemed  as  if  the 
little  mouths  had  been  taught  respect  for  Uncle 
Reuben.  "  Hush  ! "  said  the  whole  crowd. 

"  No ! "  said  Axel ;  "  I  want  to  know  if  there  is 
any  one  else  whom  he  tortures,  for  I  think  he  is  the 
most  troublesome  of  all  uncles." 

That  one  brave  word  broke  the  dam  which  had 
held  in  the  indignation  of  those  tormented  child- 
hearts.  There  was  a  great  murmuring  and  shout- 
ing. So  must  a  crowd  of  nihilists  look  when  they 
revile  an  autocrat. 

The  poor,  great  man's  register  of  sins  was  un- 
rolled. Uncle  Reuben  persecuted  the  children  of 
all  his  brothers  and  sisters.  Uncle  Reuben  died 
wherever  he  chose.  Uncle  Reuben  was  always  the 
same  age  as  the  child  whose  peace  he  wished  to 
disturb. 

And  they  had  to  show  respect  to  him,  although 
he  was  quite  plainly  a  liar.  They  might  hate  him 
in  the  most  silent  depths  of  their  heart,  but  over- 


UNCLE  REUBEN  237 

look  him  or  show  him  disrespect,  no,  then  they  were 
stopped. 

What  an  air  the  old  people  put  on  when  they 
spoke  of  him !  Had  he  ever  really  done  anything 
so  wonderful  ?  To  sit  down  and  die  was  nothing  so 
surprising.  And  whatever  great  thing  he  may  have 
done,  it  was  certain  that  he  was  now  abusing  his 
power.  He  opposed  the  children  in  everything  that 
they  wanted  to  do,  the  old  scarecrow.  He  drove 
them  from  a  noonday  nap  in  the  grass.  He  had 
discovered  their  best  hiding  places  in  the  park  and 
forbidden  them  to  go  there.  His  last  performance 
was  to  ride  on  barebacked  horses  and  to  drive  in  the 
hay-rigging. 

They  were  all  sure  that  the  poor  thing  had  never 
been  more  than  three  years  old.  And  now  he  fell 
upon  the  big  children  of  fourteen  and  insisted  that 
he  was  their  age.  It  was  the  most  provoking  thing. 

It  was  perfectly  incredible  what  came  to  light 
about  him.  He  had  fished  from  the  dam;  he  had 
rowed  in  the  little  flat-bottomed  boat;  he  had 
climbed  up  in  the  willow  which  hangs  over  the 
water,  and  in  which  it  was  so  nice  to  sit;  yes,  he 
had  even  slept  on  the  powder-horn. 

But  they  were  all  certain  that  there  was  no  escape 
from  his  tyranny.  It  was  a  relief  to  have  spoken 
out,  but  not  a  remedy.  They  could  not  rebel  against 
Uncle  Reuben. 

You  never  would  have  believed  it,  but  when  these 
children  grew  to  be  big  and  had  children  of  their 
own,  they  immediately  began  to  make  use  of  Uncle 
Reuben,  just  as  their  parents  had  done  before  them. 

And  their  children  again,  the  young  people  who 
are  growing  up  now,  have  learned  their  lesson  so 


238  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

well,  that  it  happened  one  summer  out  in  the 
country  that  a  five-year-old  boy  came  up  to  his  old 
grandmother  Berta,  who  had  sat  down  on  the  steps 
while  waiting  for  the  carriage:  — 

"Grandmother  once  had  a  brother  whose  name 
was  Reuben." 

"You  are  quite  right,  my  little  boy,"  grandmother 
said,  and  stood  up  instantly. 

That  was  as  much  of  a  sign  to  the  young  people 
as  if  they  had  seen  an  old  Royalist  bow  before  King 
Charles's  portrait.  It  made  them  understand  that 
Uncle  Reuben  always  must  remain  great,  however 
he  abused  his  position,  only  because  he  had  been  so 
deeply  loved. 

In  these  days,  when  all  greatness  is  so  carefully 
examined,  he  has  to  be  used  with  greater  moderation 
than  formerly.  The  limit  for  his  age  is  lower; 
trees,  boats  and  powder-horns  are  safe  from  him, 
but  nothing  of  stone  which  can  be  sat  upon  can 
escape  him. 

And  the  children,  the  children  of  the  day,  treat 
him  quite  otherwise  than  their  parents  did.  They 
criticise  him  openly  and  frankly.  Their  parents  no 
longer  understand  how  to  inspire  blind,  terrified 
obedience.  Little  boarding-school  girls  discuss 
Uncle  Reuben  and  wonder  if  he  is  anything  but  a 
myth.  A  six-year-old  child  proposes  that  he  should 
prove  by  experiment  that  it  is  impossible  to  catch  a 
mortal  cold  on  stone  steps. 

But  that  is  only  a  passing  mood.  That  genera- 
tion in  their  heart  of  hearts  is  just  as  convinced  of 
Uncle  Reuben's  greatness  as  the  preceding  one  and 
obey  him  just  as  they  did. 

The  day  will  come  when   those  scoffers  will   go 


UNCLE  REUBEN  239 

down  to  the  home  of  their  ancestors,  try  to  find  the 
old  stone  steps,  and  raise  on  it  a  tablet  with  a 
golden  inscription. 

They  joke  about  Uncle  Reuben  for  a  few  years, 
but  as  soon  as  they  are  grown  and  have  children  to 
bring  up,  they  will  become  convinced  of  the  use  and 
need  of  the  great  man. 

"Oh,  my  little  child,  do  not  sit  on  those  stone 
steps!  Your  mother's  mother  had  an  uncle  whose 
name  was  Reuben.  He  died  when  he  was  your  age, 
because  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  just  such  steps." 

So  will  it  be  as  long  as  the  world  lasts. 


DOWNIE 


16 


DOWNIE 


I  THINK  I  can  see  them  as  they  drive  away. 
Quite  distinctly  I  can  see  his  stiff,  silk  hat  with 
its  broad,  curving  brim,  such  as  they  had  in  the 
forties,  his  light  waistcoat  and  his  stock.  I  also 
see  his  handsome,  clean-shaven  face  with  its  small, 
small  whiskers,  his  high  stiff  collar,  and  the  grace- 
ful dignity  of  his  slightest  movement.  He  is  sitting 
on  the  right  in  the  chaise  and  is  just  taking  up  the 
reins,  and  beside  him  is  sitting  that  little  woman. 
God  bless  her!  I  see  her  even  more  distinctly. 
Like  a  picture  I  have  before  me  that  narrow,  little 
face,  and  the  hat  that  frames  it,  tied  under  the  chin, 
the  dark-brown,  smoothly  combed  hair,  and  the  big 
shawl  with  the  embroidered  silk  flowers.  The 
chaise  in  which  they  are  driving  has  a  seat  with  a 
green,  fluted  back,  and  of  course  the  innkeeper's 
horse  which  is  to  take  them  the  first  six  miles  is  a 
little  fat  sorrel. 

I  lost  my  heart  to  her  from  the  very  first  moment. 
There  is  no  sense  in  it,  for  she  is  the  most  insig- 
nificant little  person;  but  I  was  won  by  seeing  all 
the  eyes  that  followed  her  when  she  drove  away. 
In  the  first  place,  I  see  how  her  father  and  mother 
look  after  her  from  where  they  stand  in  the  doorway 
of  the  baker's  shop.  Her  father  even  has  tears  in 
his  eyes,  but  her  mother  has  no  time  to  weep  yet. 


244  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

She  must  use  her  eyes  to  look  at  her  daughter  as 
long  as  the  latter  can  wave  and  nod  to  her.  And 
then  of  course  there  are  merry  greetings  from  the 
children  in  the  little  street  and  roguish  glances 
from  all  the  pretty,  little  factory  girls  from  behind 
windows  and  doors,  and  dreamy  looks  from  some  of 
the  young  salesmen  and  apprentices.  But  all  nod 
good-will  and  god-speed  to  her.  And  then  there 
are  anxious  glances  from  some  poor,  old  women, 
who  come  out  and  curtsey  and  take  off  their  specta- 
cles to  be  able  to  see  her  as  she  drives  by  in  state. 
But  I  cannot  see  a  single  unfriendly  look  following 
her;  no,  not  in  the  whole  length  of  the  street. 

When  she  is  out  of  sight,  her  father  wipes  the 
tears  from  his  eyes  with  his  sleeve. 

"Don't  be  sad  now,  mother!"  he  says.  "You 
will  see  that  she  will  come  out  all  right.  Downie 
will  manage,  mother,  even  if  she  is  so  little." 

"Father,"  says  the  mother  with  great  emphasis, 
"  you  speak  in  a  strange  way.  Why  should  Anne- 
Marie  not  be  able  to  manage  it  ?  She  is  as  good  as 
anybody." 

"  Of  course  she  is,  mother ;  but  still,  mother,  still 
-  I  would  not  be  in  her  shoes,  nor  go  where  she  is 
going.  No,  that  I  would  not ! " 

"Well,  and  what  good  would  that  do,  you  ugly 
old  baker ! "  says  mother,  who  sees  that  he  is  so 
uneasy  about  the  girl  that  he  needs  to  be  cheered 
with  a  little  joke.  And  father  laughs,  for  he  does 
that  as  easily  as  he  cries.  And  then  the  old  people 
go  back  into  their  shop. 

In  the  meantime  Downie,  the  little  silken  flower, 
is  in  very  good  spirits  as  she  drives  along  the  road. 
A  little  afraid  of  her  betrothed,  perhaps;  but  in 


DOWNIE  245 

her  heart  Downie  is  a  little  afraid  of  everybody, 
and  that  is  a  great  help  to  her,  for  on  account  of  it 
every  one  tries  to  show  her  that  they  are  not 
dangerous. 

Never  has  she  had  such  respect  for  Maurits  as 
to-day.  Now  that  they  have  left  the  back  street, 
and  all  her  friends  are  behind  them,  it  seems  to  her 
that  Maurits  really  grows  to  something  big.  His 
hat  and  collar  and  whiskers  stiffen,  and  the  bow  of 
his  necktie  swells.  His  voice  grows  thick  in  his 
throat,  and  he  speaks  with  difficulty.  She  feels  a 
little  depressed  by  it,  but  it  is  splendid  to  see 
Maurits  so  impressive. 

Maurits  is  so  clever;  he  has  so  much  advice  to 
give !  —  it  is  hard  to  believe  —  but  Maurits  talks 
only  sense  the  whole  way.  But  that  is  just  like 
Maurits.  He  asks  her  if  she  understands  clearly 
what  this  journey  means  to  him.  Does  she  think 
it  is  only  a  pleasure  trip  along  the  country  road? 
Thirty  miles  in  a  good  chaise  with  her  betrothed  by 
her  side  did  seem  quite  like  a  pleasure  trip,  and  a 
beautiful  place  to  drive  to,  a  rich  uncle  to  visit  — 
perhaps  she  has  thought  that  it  was  only  for 
amusement  ? 

Fancy  if  he  knew  that  she  had  prepared  herself 
for  this  journey  by  a  long  conference  with  her 
mother  before  they  went  to  bed;  and  by  a  long 
succession  of  anxious  dreams  through  the  night, 
and  with  prayers,  and  with  tears !  But  she  pretends 
to  be  stupid,  in  order  to  get  more  enjoyment  out  of 
Maurits' s  wisdom.  He  likes  to  show  it,  and  she 
is  glad  to  let  him. 

"  The  real  trouble  is  that  you  are  so  sweet, "  says 
Maurits ;  for  that  was  how  he  had  come  to  care  for 


246  INVISIBLE.  LINKS 

her,  and  it  was  really  very  stupid  of  him.  His 
father  was  not  at  all  in  favor  of  it.  And  his  mother ! 
He  hardly  dared  to  think  of  what  a  fuss  she  had 
made  when  Maurits  had  informed  her  that  he  had 
engaged  himself  to  a  poor  girl  from  a  back  street 

—  a  girl  who  had  no  education,  no  accomplishments, 
and  who  was  not  even  pretty ;  only  sweet. 

In  Maurits' s  eyes,  of  course,  the  daughter  of  a 
baker  was  just  as  good  as  the  son  of  a  burgomaster, 
but  every  one  did  not  have  such  liberal  views  as  he. 
If  Maurits  had  not  had  his  rich  uncle,  it  could  never 
have  come  to  anything;  for  he  was  only  a  student, 
and  had  nothing  to  marry  on.  But  if  they  now  could 
win  his  uncle  over  their  way  was  clear. 

I  see  them  so  plainly  as  they  drive  along  the  road. 
She  looks  a  little  unhappy  as  she  listens  to  his  wis- 
dom. But  she  is  content  in  her  thoughts!  How 
sensible  Maurits  is!  And  when  he  speaks  of  the 
sacrifices  he  is  making  for  her,  it  is  only  his  way  of 
saying  how  much  he  cares  for  her. 

And  if  she  had  expected  that  alone  together  on 
such  a  beautiful  day  he  perhaps  might  be  not  quite 
the  same  as  when  they  sat  at  home  with  her  mother 

—  but  that  would  not  have  been  right  of  Maurits. 
She  is  proud  of  him. 

He  is  telling  her  what  kind  of  a  man  his  uncle  is. 
If  he  will  befriend  them  their  fortune-  is  made. 
Uncle  Theodore  is  incredibly  rich.  He  owns  eleven 
smelting-furnaces,  and  farms  and  houses  besides, 
and  mines  and  stocks.  To  all  these  Maurits  is  the 
proper  heir.  But  Uncle  Theodore  is  a  little  uncer- 
tain to  have  to  do  with  when  it  concerns  any  one  he 
does  not  like.  If  he  is  not  pleased  with  Maurits' s 
wife,  he  can  will  away  everything. 


DOWNIE  247 

The  little  face  grows  paler  and  smaller,  but 
Maurits  only  stiffens  and  swells.  There  is  not 
much  chance  of  Anne-Marie's  turning  his  uncle's 
head  as  she  did  his.  His  uncle  is  quite  a  different 
kind  of  man.  His  taste  —  well,  Maurits  does  not 
think  much  of  his  taste  —  but  he  thinks  that  it 
would  be  something  loud-voiced,  something  flashing 
and  red  which  would  strike  Uncle.  Besides,  he  is 
a  confirmed  old  bachelor  —  thinks  women  are  only  a 
bother.  The  most  important  thing  is  that  he  shall 
not  dislike  her  too  much.  Maurits  will  take  care 
of  the  rest.  But  she  must  not  be  silly.  Is  she 
crying  —  !  Oh,  if  she  does  not  look  better  by  the 
time  they  arrive,  Uncle  will  send  them  off  inside 
of  a  minute.  She  is  glad  for  their  sakes  that  Uncle 
is  not  as  clever  as  Maurits.  She  hopes  it  is  no  sin 
against  Maurits  to  think  that  it  is  good  that  Uncle 
is  quite  a  different  sort  of  person.  For  fancy,  if 
Maurits  had  been  Uncle,  and  two  poor  young  people 
had  come  driving  to  him  to  get  aid  in  life;  then 
Maurits,  who  is  so  sensible,  would  certainly  have 
begged  them  to  return  whence  they  came,  and  wait 
to  get  married  until  they  had  something  to  marry  on. 

Uncle,  however,  was  decidedly  terrifying  in  his 
own  way.  He  drank,  and  gave  great  parties,  where 
everybody  was  very  lively,  and  he  did  not  at  all 
understand  how  to  manage  his  affairs.  He  must 
know  that  every  one  cheated  him,  but  he  was  none 
the  less  cheerful.  And  heedless !  —  the  burgomaster 
had  sent  by  Maurits  some  shares  in  an  undertaking 
that  was  not  prosperous ;  but  Uncle  would  buy  them 
of  him,  Maurits  had  said.  Uncle  did  not  care 
where  he  threw  his  money  away.  He  had  stood  in 
town  in  the  market-place  and  tossed  silver  to  the 


248  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

street  boys.  Playing  away  a  couple  of  thousand 
crowns  in  a  single  night,  or  lighting  his  pipe  with 
ten-crown  notes,  were  among  the  things  Uncle  did. 

Thus  they  drove  on,  and  thus  they  talked  while 
they  were  driving. 

They  arrived  toward  evening.  Uncle's  "resi- 
dence," as  he  called  it,  did  not  stand  by  the  iron- 
works. It  lay  far  from  all  smoke  and  hammering, 
on  the  slope  of  the  mountain,  looking  over  a  wide 
view  of  lakes  and  long  hills.  It  was  a  stately 
building,  with  wooded  lawns  and  groves  of  birches 
round  about  it,  but  few  cultivated  fields,  for  the 
place  was  a  pleasure-palace,  not  a  farm. 

The  young  people  drove  up  an  avenue  lined  with 
birches  and  elms.  Then  they  drove  between  two 
low,  thick  rows  of  hedges  and  were  about  to  turn 
up  to  the  house. 

But  just  where  the  road  turned,  a  triumphal  arch 
was  raised,  and  there  stood  Uncle  with  his  depend- 
ents to  greet  them.  Downie  never  could  have 
believed  that  Maurits  would  have  prepared  such  a 
reception  for  her.  Her  heart  grew  light,  and  she 
seized  his  hand  and  pressed  it  in  gratitude.  More  she 
could  not  do  then,  for  they  were  just  under  the  arch. 

And  there  he  stood,  the  well-known  man,  the 
ironmaster,  Theodore  Fristeat,  big  and  black- 
bearded,  and  beaming  with  good-will.  He  waved 
his  hat  and  shouted  hurrah,  and  all  the  people 
shouted  hurrah,  and  tears  rose  in  Anne-Marie's 
eyes,  although  she  was  smiling.  And  of  course 
they  all  had  to  like  her  from  the  very  first  moment, 
if  only  for  her  way  of  looking  at  Maurits.  For  she 
thought  that  they  were  all  there  for  his  sake,  and 
she  had  to  turn  her  eyes  away  from  the  whole  spec- 


DOWNIE  249 

tacle  to  look  at  him,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  with  a 
sweep  and  bowed  so  beautifully  and  royally.  Oh, 
such  a  look  as  she  gave  him !  Uncle  Theodore 
almost  left  off  hurrahing  and  felt  like  swearing 
when  he  saw  it. 

No,  she  wished  no  harm  to  any  one  on  earth,  but 
if  the  estate  really  had  been  Maurits's,  it  would 
have  been  very  suitable.  It  was  most  impressive 
to  see  him,  as  he  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  porch  and 
turned  to  the  people  to  thank  them.  The  iron- 
master was  stately  too,  but  what  was  his  manner 
compared  to  Maurits's.  He  only  helped  her  down 
from  the  carriage,  and  took  her  shawl  and  hat  like 
a  footman,  while  Maurits  lifted  his  hat  from  his 
white  brow  and  said :  "  Thank  you,  my  children ! " 
No,  the  ironmaster  certainly  had  no  manners;  for 
as  he  profited  by  his  rights  as  an  uncle  and  took  her 
in  his  arms,  he  noticed  that  she  managed  to  look  at 
Maurits  while  he  was  kissing  her,  and  he  swore, 
really  swore  quite  fiercely.  Downie  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  find  any  one  disagreeable,  but  it  certainly 
would  be  no  easy  task  to  please  Uncle  Theodore. 

"To-morrow,"  says  uncle,  "there  will  be  a  big 
dinner  here,  and  a  ball,  but  to-day  you  young  people 
must  rest  after  your  journey.  Now  we  will  eat  our 
supper,  and  then  we  will  go  to  bed." 

They  are  escorted  into  a  drawing-room,  and  there 
they  are  left  alone.  The  ironmaster  rushes  out 
like  a  wind  which  is  afraid  of  being  shut  in.  Five 
minutes  later  he  is  rolling  down  the  avenue  in  his 
big  carriage,  and  the  coachman  is  driving  so  that 
the  horses  seem  to  be  lying  along  the  ground.  After 
another  five  minutes  uncle  is  there  again,  and  now 
an  old  lady  is  sitting  beside  him  in  the  carriage. 


250  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

And  in  he  comes,  with  a  kind,  talkative  old  lady 
on  his  arm.  And  she  takes  Anne-Marie  and  em- 
braces her,  but  Maurits  she  greets  more  stiffly.  No 
one  can  take  any  liberties  with  Maurits. 

However,  Anne-Marie  is  very  glad  that  this  pleas- 
ant old  lady  has  come.  She  and  the  ironmaster 
have  such  a  merry  way  of  joking  with  one  another. 

But  when  they  have  said  good-night  and  Anne- 
Marie  has  come  into  her  little  room,  something  too 
•tiresome  and  provoking  happens. 

Uncle  and  Maurits  are  walking  in  the  garden, 
and  she  knows  that  Maurits  is  unfolding  his  plans 
for  the  future.  Uncle  does  not  seem  to  be  saying 
anything  at  all;  he  is  only  walking  and  striking  the 
blades  of  grass  with  his  stick.  But  Maurits  will 
persuade  him  fast  enough  that  the  best  thing  for 
him  to  do  is  to  give  Maurits  a  position  as  manager 
of  one  of  his  steel- works,  if  he  does  not  care  to  give 
him  the  works  outright.  Maurits  has  grown  so 
practical  since  he  has  been  in  love.  He  often  says : 
"  Is  it  not  best  for  me,  who  am  to  be  a  great  land- 
owner, to  make  myself  familiar  with  it  all?  What 
is  the  use  of  taking  my  bar  examinations?" 

They  are  walking  directly  under  the  window  and 
nothing  prevents  them  from  seeing  that  she  is  sit- 
ting there;  but  as  they  do  not  mind  it,  no  one  can 
ask  that  she  shall  not  hear  what  they  are  saying.  It 
is  really  just  as  much  her  affair  as  it  is  Maurits' s. 

Then  Uncle  Theodore  suddenly  stops  and  he  looks 
angry.  He  looks  quite  furious,  she  thinks,  and 
she  almost  calls  to  Maurits  to  take  care.  But  it  is 
top  late,  for  Uncle  Theodore  has  seized  Maurits, 
crushed  his  ruffle,  and  is  shaking  him  till  he  twists 
like  an  eel.  Then  he  slings  him  from  him  with 


such  force  that  Maurits  staggers  backwards  and 
would  have  fallen  if  he  had  not  found  support  in  a 
tree  trunk.  And  there  Maurits  stands  and  gasps : 
"  What  ?  "  Yes,  what  else  should  he  say  ? 

Ah,  never  has  she  admired  Maurits's  self-control 
so  much !  He  does  not  throw  himself  upon  Uncle 
Theodore  and  fight  him.  He  only  looks  calmly 
superior,  merely  innocently  surprised.  She  under- 
stands that  he  controls  himself  so  that  the  journey 
may  not  be  for  nothing.  He  is  thinking  of  her,  and 
is  controlling  himself. 

Poor  Maurits!  it  seems  that  his  uncle  is  angry 
with  him  on  her  account.  He  asks  if  Maurits  does 
not  know  that  his  uncle  is  a  bachelor  when  he 
brings  his  betrothed  here  without  bringing  her 
mother  with  him.  Her  mother!  Downie  is  offended 
in  Maurits's  behalf.  It  was  her  mother  who  had 
excused  herself  and  said  that  she  could  not  leave 
the  bakery.  Maurits  answers  so  too,  but  his  uncle 
will  accept  no  excuses.  — Well,  his  mother,  then; 
she  could  have  done  her  son  that  service.  Yes, 
if  she  had  been  too  haughty  they  had  better  have 
stayed  where  they  were.  What  would  they  have 
done  if  his  old  lady  had  not  been  able  to  come? 
And  how  could  a  betrothed  couple  travel  alone 
through  the  country?  —  Really,  Maurits  was  not 
dangerous.  No,  that  he  had  never  believed,  but 
people's  tongues  are  dangerous.  —  Well,  and  finally 
it  was  that  chaise !  Had  Maurits  ferreted  out  the 
most  ridiculous  vehicle  in  the  whole  town  ?  To  let 
that  child  shake  thirty  miles  in  a  chaise,  and  to  let 
him  raise  a  triumphal  arch  for  a  chaise ! —  He  would 
like  to  shake  him  again !  To  let  his  uncle  shout 
hurrah  for  a  tip-cart !  He  was  getting  too  unreason- 


252  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

able.  How  she  admired  Maurits  for  being  so  calm ! 
She  would  like  to  join  in  the  game  and  defend  Mau- 
rits, but  she  does  not  believe  that  he  would  like  it. 

And  before  she  goes  to  sleep,  she  lies  and  thinks 
out  everything  she  would  have  said  to  defend 
Maurits.  Then  she  falls  asleep  and  starts  up  again, 
and  in  her  ears  rings  an  old  saying :  — 

"  A  dog  stood  on  a  mountain-top, 
He  barked  aloud  and  would  not  stop. 
His  name  was  you, 
His  name  was  I, 

His  name  was  all  in  Earth  and  Sky. 
What  was  his  name  ? 
His  name  was  why." 

The  saying  had  irritated  her  many  a  time.  Oh, 
how  stupid  she  had  thought  the  dog  was  !  But  now 
half  asleep,  she  confuses  the  dog  "  What "  with 
Maurits  and  she  thinks  that  the  dog  has  his  white 
forehead.  Then  she  laughs.  She  laughs  as  easily  as 
she  cries.  She  has  inherited  that  from  her  father. 


II 

How  has  "it"  come?  That  which  she  dares  not 
call  by  name  ? 

"  It "  has  come  like  the  dew  to  the  grass,  like  the 
color  to  the  rose,  like  the  sweetness  to  the  berry, 
imperceptibly  and  gently  without  announcing  itself 
beforehand. 

It  is  also  no  matter  how  "  it  "  came  or  what  "  it " 
is.  Were  it  good  or  evil,  fair  or  foul,  still  it  is 
forbidden;  that  which  never  ought  to  exist.  "It" 
makes  her  anxious,  sinful,  unhappy. 


DOWN  IE  253 

"  It "  is  that  of  which  she  never  wishes  to  think. 
"It"  is  what  shall  be  torn  away  and  thrown  out; 
and  yet  it  is  nothing  that  can  be  seized  and  caught. 
She  shuts  her  heart  to  "  it,"  but  it  comes  in  just  the 
same.  "  It "  turns  back  the  blood  in  her  veins  and 
flows  there,  drives  the  thouhtgs  from  her  brain  and 
reigns  there,  dances  through  her  nerves  and  trembles 
in  her  finger-tips.  It  is  everywhere  in  her,  so  that 
if  she  had  been  able  to  take  away  everything  else  of 
which  her  body  consisted  and  to  have  left  "it" 
behind,  there  would  remain  a  complete  impression 
of  her.  And  yet  "  it "  was  nothing. 

She  wishes  never  to  think  of  "it,"  and  yet  she 
has  to  think  of  "  it "  constantly.  How  has  she 
become  so  wicked?  And  then  she  searches  and 
wonders  how  "  it "  came. 

Ah  Downie !  How  tender  are  our  souls,  and  how 
easily  awakened  are  our  hearts ! 

She  was  sure  that  "it"  had  not  come  at  break- 
fast, surely  not  at  breakfast. 

Then  she  had  only  been  frightened  and  shy.  She 
had  been  so  terrified  when  she  came  down  to  break- 
fast and  found  no  Maurits,  only  Uncle  Theodore 
and  the  old  lady. 

It  had  been  a  clever  idea  of  Maurits  to  go  hunt- 
ing; although  it  was  impossible  to  discover  what  he 
was  hunting  in  midsummer,  as  the  old  lady  remarked. 
But  he  knew  of  course  that  it  was  wise  to  keep  away 
from  his  uncle  for  a  few  hours  until  the  latter 
became  calm  again.  He  could  not  know  that  she 
was  so  shy,  nor  that  she  had  almost  fainted  when 
she  had  found  him  gone  and  herself  left  alone  with 
uncle  and  the  old  lady.  Maurits  had  never  been 
shy.  He  did  not  know  what  torture  it  is. 


254  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

That  breakfast,  that  breakfast!  Uncle  had  as  a 
beginning  asked  the  old  lady  if  she  had  heard  the 
story  of  Sigrid  the  beautiful.  He  did  not  ask 
Downie,  neither  would  she  have  been  able  to 
answer.  The  old  lady  knew  the  story  well,  but  he 
told  it  just  the  same.  Then  Anne-Marie  remem- 
bered that  Maurits  had  laughed  at  his  uncle  because 
in  all  his  house  he  only  had  two  books,  and  those 
were  Afzelius'  "  Fairy  Tales  "  and  Nosselt's  "  Popu- 
lar Stories  for  Ladies."  "But  those  he  knows," 
Maurits  had  said. 

Anne-Marie  had  found  the  story  pretty.  She 
liked  it  when  Bengt  Lagman  had  pearls  sewn  on 
the  breadth  of  homespun.  She  saw  Maurits  before 
her;  how  royally  proud  he  would  have  looked  when 
ordering  the  pearls !  That  was  just  the  sort  of 
thing  Maurits  would  have  done  well. 

But  when  uncle  had  come  to  that  part  of  the  story 
where  Bengt  Lagman  went  into  the  woods  to  avoid 
the  meeting  with  his  angry  brother,  and  instead  let 
his  young  wife  meet  the  storm,  then  it  became  so 
plain  that  uncle  understood  Maurits  had  gone  hunt- 
ing to  escape  his  wrath  and  that  he  knew  how  she 
thought  to  win  him  over.  —  Yes,  yesterday,  then 
they  had  been  able  to  make  plans,  Maurits  and  she, 
how  she  should  coquet  with  uncle,  but  to-day  she 
had  no  thought  of  carrying  them  out.  Oh,  she  had 
never  behaved  so  foolishly!  Every  drop  of  blood 
streamed  into  her  face,  and  her  knife  and  fork  fell 
with  a  terrible  clatter  out  of  her  hands  down  on  her 
plate. 

But  Uncle  Theodore  had  shown  no  mercy  and  had 
gone  on  with  the  story  until  he  came  to  that  princely 
speech:  "Had  my  brother  not  done  it,  I  would 


DOWNIE  255 

have  done  it  myself."  He  said  it  with  such  a 
strange  emphasis  that  she  was  forced  to  look  up  and 
to  meet  his  laughing  brown  eyes. 

And  when  he  saw  the  trouble  staring  from  her 
eyes,  he  began  to  laugh  like  a  boy.  "  What  do  you 
think,"  he  cried,  "  Bengt  Lagman  thought  when  he 
came  home  and  heard  that  '  Had  my  brother  ? '  I 
think  he  stopped  at  home  the  next  time." 

Tears  rose  to  Downie's  eyes,  and  when  Uncle  saw 
that  he  laughed  louder.  "  Yes,  it  is  a  fine  partisan 
my  nephew  has  chosen,"  he  seemed  to  say.  "You 
are  not  playing  your  part,  my  little  girl."  And 
every  time  she  had  looked  at  him  the  brown  eyes 
had  repeated :  "  Had  my  brother  not  done  it,  I  would 
have  done  it  myself."  Downie  was  not  quite  sure 
that  the  eyes  did  not  say  "nephew."  And  fancy 
how  she  behaved.  She  began  to  cry,  and  rushed 
from  the  room. 

But  it  was  not  then  that  "  it "  came,  nor  during 
the  walk  of  the  forenoon. 

Then  she  was  occupied  with  something  quite 
different.  Then  she  was  overcome  with  pleasure  at 
the  beautiful  place  and  that  nature  was  so  wonder- 
fully near.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  found  again 
something  she  had  lost  long,  long  ago. 

People  thought  she  was  a  city  girl.  But  she  had 
become  a  country  lass  as  soon  as  she  put  her  foot 
on  the  sandy  path.  She  felt  instantly  that  she 
belonged  to  the  country. 

As  soon  as  she  had  calmed  down  a  little  she  had 
ventured  out  by  herself  to  inspect  the  place.  She 
had  looked  about  her  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  the 
door.  Then  she  suddenly  began  to  whirl  about; 
she  hung  her  hat  on  her  arm  and  threw  her  shawl 


256  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

away.     She  drew  the  air  into  her  lungs  so  that  her 
nostrils  were  drawn  together  and  whistled. 

Oh,  how  brave  she  felt ! 

She  made  a  few  attempts  to  go  quietly  and  sedately 
down  to  the  garden,  but  that  was  not  what  attracted 
her.  Turning  off  to  one  side,  she  started  towards 
the  big  groups  of  barns  and  out-houses.  She  met  a 
farm -girl  and  said  a  few  words  to  her.  She  was  sur- 
prised to  hear  how  brisk  her  own  voice  sounded ;  it 
was  like  an  officer  at  the  front.  And  she  felt  how 
smart  she  looked  when,  with  head  proudly  raised 
and  a  little  on  one  side,  moving  with  a  quick,  free 
motion  and  with  a  little  switch  in  her  hand,  she 
entered  the  barn. 

It  was  not,  however,  what  she  had  expected.  No 
long  rows  of  horned  creatures  were  there  to  impress 
her,  for  they  were  all  out  at  pasture.  A  single  calf 
stood  in  its  pen  and  seemed  to  expect  her  to  do 
something  for  him.  She  went  up  to  him,  raised 
herself  on  tiptoe,  held  her  dress  together  with  one 
hand  and  touched  the  calf's  forehead  with  the 
finger-tips  of  the  other. 

As  the  calf  still  did  not  seem  to  think  that  she 
had  done  enough  and  stretched  out  his  long  tongue, 
she  graciously  let  him  lick  her  little  finger.  She 
could  not  resist  looking  about  her,  as  if  to  find 
some  one  to  admire  her  bravery.  And  she  discov- 
ered that  Uncle  Theodore  stood  at  the  barn-door  and 
laughed  at  her. 

Then  he  had  gone  with  her  on  her  walk.  But 
"it"  did  not  come  then,  not  then  at  all.  It  had 
only  wonderfully  come  to  pass  that  she  was  no 
longer  afraid  of  Uncle  Theodore.  He  was  like  her 
mother;  he  seemed  to  know  all  her  faults  and  weak- 


DOWNIE  257 

nesses,    and    it   was   so   comfortable.     She  did  not 
need  to  show  herself  better  than  she  was. 

Uncle  Theodore  wished  to  take  her  to  the  garden 
and  to  the  terraces  by  the  pond,  but  that  was  not  to 
her  mind.  She  wished  to  know  what  there  could 
be  in  all  those  big  buildings. 

So  he  went  patiently  with  her  to  the  dairy  and  to 
the  ice-house;  to  the  wine-cellar  and  to  the  potato 
bins.  He  took  the  things  in  order,  and  showed  her 
the  larder,  and  the  wood-shed,  and  the  carriage- 
house,  and  the  laundry.  Then  he  led  her  through 
the  stable  of  the  draught-horses,  and  that  of  the 
carriage  horses ;  let  her  see  the  harness-room  and 
the  servants'  rooms ;  the  laborers'  cottages  and  the 
wood-carving  room.  She  became  a  little  confused 
by  all  the  different  rooms  that  Uncle  Theodore  had 
considered  necessary  to  establish  on  his  estate;  but 
her  heart  was  glowing  with  enthusiasm  at  the 
thought  of  how  splendid  it  must  be  to  have  all  that 
to  rule  over.  So  she  was  not  tired,  although  they 
walked  through  the  sheep-houses  and  the  piggeries, 
and  looked  in  at  the  hens  and  the  rabbits.  She 
faithfully  examined  the  weaving-rooms  and  the 
dairies,  the  smoke-house  and  the  smithy,  all  with 
growing  enthusiasm.  Then  they  visited  the  big 
lofts;  drying-rooms  for  the  clothes  and  drying- 
rooms  for  the  wood;  hay-lofts,  and  lofts  for  dried 
leaves  for  the  sheep  to  eat. 

The  dormant  housewife  in  her  awoke  to  life  and 
consciousness  at  all  this  perfection.  But  most  of 
all,  she  was  moved  by  the  great  brewhouse  and  the 
two  neat  bakeries  with  the  wide  oven  and  the  big 
table. 

"  Mother  ought  to  see  that,"  she  said. 
17 


258  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

In  the  bakehouse  they  had  sat  down  and  rested, 
and  she  had  told  of  her  home.  He  was  already  like 
a  friend,  although  his  brown  eyes  laughed  at  every- 
thing she  said. 

At  home  everything  was  so  quiet;  no  life,  no 
variety.  She  had  been  a  delicate  child,  and  her 
parents  had  watched  over  her  on  account  of  it,  and 
let  her  do  nothing.  It  was  only  as  play  that  she 
was  allowed  to  help  in  the  baking  and  in  the  shop. 
Somehow  she  came  to  tell  him  that  her  father  called 
her  Downie.  She  had  also  said :  "  Everybody  spoils 
me  at  home  except  Maurits,  and  that  is  why  I  like 
him  so  much.  He  is  so  sensible  with  me!  He 
never  calls  me  Downie;  only  Anne-Marie.  Maurits 
is  so  admirable. " 

Oh,  how  it  had  danced  and  laughed  in  uncle's 
eyes !  She  could  have  struck  him  with  her  switch. 
She  repeated  almost  with  a  sob:  "Maurits  is  so 
admirable. " 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  know,"  Uncle  had  answered. 
"He  is  going  to  be  my  heir."  Whereupon  she  had 
cried :  "  Ah,  Uncle  Theodore,  why  do  you  not 
marry  ?  Think  how  happy  any  one  would  be  to  be 
mistress  of  such  an  estate ! " 

"How  would  it  be  then  with  Maurits's  inheri- 
tance ? "  uncle  had  asked  quite  softly. 

Then  she  had  been  silent  for  a  long  while,  for 
she  could  not  say  to  Uncle  that  she  and  Maurits  did 
not  ask  for  the  inheritance,  for  that  was  just  what 
they  did  do.  She  wondered  if  it  was  very  ugly  for 
them  to  do  so.  She  suddenly  had  a  feeling  as  if 
she  ought  to  beg  Uncle  for  forgiveness  for  some 
great  wrong  that  they  had  done  him.  But  she  could 
not  do  that  either. 


DOWNIE  259 

When  they  came  in  again,  Uncle's  dog  came  to 
meet  them.  It  was  a  tiny,  little  thing  on  the 
thinnest  legs,  with  fluttering  ears  and  gazelle-like 
eyes;  a  nothing  with  a  shrill,  little  voice. 

"You  wonder,  perhaps,  that  I  have  such  a  little 
dog,"  Uncle  Theodore  had  said. 

"I  suppose  I  do,"  she  had  answered. 

"  But,  you  see,  it  is  not  I  who  have  chosen  Jenny 
for  my  dog,  but  Jenny  who  has  taken  me  as  a 
master.  You  would  like  to  hear  the  story,  Downie  ?  " 
That  name  he  had  instantly  seized  upon. 

Yes,  she  would  like  it,  although  she  understood 
that  it  would  be  something  irritating  he  would  say. 

"Well,  you  see,  when  Jenny  came  here  the  first 
time  she  lay  on  the  knees  of  a  fine  lady  from  the 
town,  and  had  a  blanket  on  her  back  and  a  cloth 
about  her  head.  Hush,  Jenny;  it  is  true  that  you 
had  it !  And  I  thought  what  a  little  rat  it  was. 
But  do  you  know  when  that  little  creature  was  put 
down  on  the  ground  here  some  memories  of  her 
childhood  or  something  must  have  wakened  in  her. 
She  scratched,  and  kicked,  and  tried  to  rub  off  her 
blanket.  And  then  she  behaved  like  the  big  dogs 
here ;  so  we  said  that  Jenny  must  have  grown  up  in 
the  country. 

"  She  lay  out  on  the  doorstep  and  never  even 
looked  at  the  parlor  sofa,  and  she  chased  the  chickens, 
and  stole  the  cat's  milk,  and  barked  at  beggars,  and 
darted  about  the  horses'  legs  when  we  had  guests. 
It  was  a  pleasure  and  a  joy  to  us  to  see  how  she 
behaved.  You  must  understand,  a  little  thing  that 
had  only  lain  in  a  basket  and  been  carried  on  the 
arm !  It  was  wonderful.  And  so  when  they  were 
going  to  leave,  Jenny  would  not  go.  She  stood  on 


260  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

the  steps  and  whined  so  pitifully  and  jumped  up  on 
me,  and  really  asked  to  be  allowed  to  stay.  So 
there  was  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  to  let  her  stay. 
We  were  touched  by  the  little  creature;  it  was  so 
small,  and  yet  wished  to  be  a  country  dog.  But  I 
had  never  thought  that  I  should  ever  keep  a  lap-dog. 
Soon,  perhaps,  I  shall  get  a  wife  too. " 

Oh,  how  hard  it  is  to  be  shy,  to  be  uneducated! 
She  wondered  if  Uncle  had  been  very  surprised  when 
she  rushed  away  so  hurriedly.  But  she  had  felt  as 
if  he  had  meant  her  when  he  spoke  of  Jenny.  And 
perhaps  he  had  not  at  all.  But  any  way  —  yes  she 
had  been  so  embarrassed.  She  could  not  have 
stayed. 

But  it  was  not  then  "  it "  came,  not  then. 

Perhaps  it  was  in  the  evening  at  the  ball.  Never 
had  she  had  such  a  good  time  at  any  ball !  But  if 
any  one  had  asked  her  if  she  had  danced  much,  she 
would  have  needed  to  reconsider  and  acknowledge 
that  she  had  not.  But  it  was  the  best  proof  that  she 
had  really  enjoyed  herself  when  she  had  not  even 
noticed  that  she  had  been  a  little  neglected 

She  had  so  much  enjoyed  looking  at  Maurits. 
Just  because  she  had  been  a  little  bit  severe  to  him 
at  breakfast  and  laughed  at  him  yesterday,  it  was 
such  a  pleasure  to  her  to  see  him  at  the  ball.  He 
had  never  seemed  to  her  so  handsome  and  so' 
superior. 

He  had  seemed  to  feel  that  she  would  consider 
herself  injured  because  he  had  not  talked  and  danced 
only  with  her.  But  it  had  been  pleasure  enough  for 
her  to  see  how  every  one  liked  Maurits.  As  if  she 
had  wished  to  exhibit  their  love  to  the  general  gaze! 
Oh,  Downie  was  not  so  foolish ! 


DOWNIE  26l 

Maurits  danced  many  dances  with  the  beautiful 
Elizabeth  Westling.  But  that  had  not  troubled  her 
at  all,  for  Maurits  had  time  after  time  come  up  and 
whispered:  "You  see,  I  can't  get  away  from  her. 
We  are  old  friends.  Here  in  the  country  they  are 
so  unaccustomed  to  have  a  partner  who  has  been  in 
society  and  can  both  dance  and  talk.  You  must 
lend  me  to  the  daughters  of  the  county  magnates 
for  this  evening,  Anne-Marie." 

But  Uncle,  too,  gave  way  to  Maurits.  "  Be  host 
for  this  evening,"  he  said  to  him,  and  Maurits  was. 
He  was  everywhere.  He  led  the  dance,  he  led  the 
drinking,  and  he  made  a  speech  for  the  county  and 
for  the  ladies.  He  was  wonderful.  Both  Uncle 
and  she  had  watched  Maurits,  and  then  their  eyes 
had  met.  Uncle  had  smiled  and  nodded  to  her. 
Uncle  certainly  was  proud  of  Maurits.  She  had 
felt  badly  that  Uncle  did  not  really  do  justice  to  his 
nephew.  Towards  morning  Uncle  had  been  loud 
and  quarrelsome.  He  had  wanted  to  join  the  dance, 
but  the  girls  drew  back  from  him  when  he  came  up 
to  them  and  pretended  to  be  engaged. 

"Dance  with  Anne-Marie,"  Maurits  had  said  to 
his  uncle,  and  it  had  sounded  rather  patronising. 
She  was  so  frightened  that  she  quite  shrank 
together. 

Uncle  was  offended  too,  turned  on  his  heel  and 
went  into  the  smoking-room. 

Maurits  came  up  to  her  and  said  with  a  hard,  hard 
voice:  — 

"  You  are  ruining  everything,  Anne-Marie.  Must 
you  look  like  that  when  Uncle  wishes  to  dance  with 
you  ?  If  you  could  know  what  he  said  to  me  yester- 
day about  you!  You  must  do  something  too,  Anne- 


262  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Marie.  Do  you  think  it  is  right  to  leave  every- 
thing to  me?" 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do,  Maurits  ?  " 

"  Oh,  now  there  is  nothing ;  now  the  game  is 
spoiled.  Think  all  I  had  won  this  evening!  But 
it  is  lost  now." 

"I  will  gladly  ask  Uncle's  pardon,  if  you  like, 
Maurits."  And  she  really  meant  it.  She  was 
honestly  sorry  to  have  hurt  Uncle. 

"That  is  of  course  the  only  right  thing  to  do;  but 
one  can  ask  nothing  of  any  one  as  ridiculously  shy 
as  you  are. " 

She  had  not  answered,  but  had  gone  straight  to 
the  smoking-room,  which  was  almost  empty.  Uncle 
had  thrown  himself  down  in  an  arm-chair. 

"Why  will  you  not  dance  with  me?"  she  had 
asked. 

Uncle  Theodore's  eyes  were  closed.  He  opened 
them  and  looked  long  at  her.  It  was  a  look  full  of 
pain  that  she  met.  It  made  her  understand  how  a 
prisoner  must  feel  when  he  thinks  of  his  chains.  It 
made  her  sorry  for  Uncle.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had 
needed  her  much  more  than  Maurits,  for  Maurits 
needed  no  one.  He  was  very  well  as  he  was.  So 
she  laid  her  hand  on  Uncle  Theodore's  arm  quite 
gently  and  caressingly. 

Instantly  new  life  awoke  in  his  eyes.  He  began 
to  stroke  her  hair  with  his  big  hand.  "Little 
mother,"  he  had  said. 

Then  "it"  came  over  her  while  he  stroked  her 
hair.  It  came  stealing,  it  came  creeping,  it  came 
rushing,  as  when  elves  pass  through  dark  woods. 


DOWNIE  263 


III 

ONE  evening  thin,  soft  clouds  are  floating  in  the 
sky;  one  evening  all  is  still  and  mild;  one  evening 
the  air  is  filled  with  fine  white  down  from  the  aspens 
and  poplars. 

It  is  quite  late,  and  no  one  is  up  except  Uncle 
Theodore,  who  is  walking  in  the  garden  and  is  con- 
sidering how  he  can  separate  the  young  man  and  the 
young  woman. 

For  never,  never  in  the  world  shall  it  come  to 
pass  that  Maurits  leaves  his  house  with  her  at  his 
side  while  Uncle  Theodore  stands  on  the  steps  and 
wishes  them  a  pleasant  journey. 

Is  it  a  possibility  to  let  her  go  at  all,  since  she 
has  filled  the  house  for  three  days  with  merry  chirp- 
ing, since  she  in  her  quiet  way  has  accustomed 
them  to  be  cared  for  and  petted  by  her,  since  they 
have  all  grown  used  to  seeing  that  soft,  supple  little 
creature  roving  about  everywhere.  Uncle  Theodore 
says  to  himself  that  it  is  not  possible.  He  cannot 
live  without  her. 

Just  then  he  strikes  against  a  dandelion  which 
has  gone  to  seed,  and,  like  men's  resolutions  and 
men's  promises,  the  white  ball  of  down  is  scattered, 
its  white  floss  flies  out  and  is  dispersed. 

The  night  is  not  cold  as  the  nights  generally  are 
in  that  part  of  the  country.  The  warmth  is  kept  in 
by  the  grey  cloud  blanket.  The  winds  show  them- 
selves merciful  for  once  and  do  not  blow. 

Uncle  Theodore  sees  her,  Downie.  She  is  weep- 
ing because  Maurits  has  forsaken  her.  But  he 
draws  her  to  him  and  kisses  away  her  tears. 


264  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Soft  and  fine,  the  white  down  falls  from  the  great 
ripe  clusters  of  the  trees,  —  so  light  that  the  air  will 
scarcely  let  them  fall,  so  fine  and  delicate  that  they 
hardly  show  on  the  ground. 

Uncle  Theodore  laughs  to  himself  when  he  thinks 
of  Maurits.  In  thought  he  goes  in  to  him  the  next 
morning  while  he  is  still  lying  in  his  bed.  "  Listen, 
Maurits,"  he  means  to  say  to  him.  "I  do  not  wish 
to  inspire  you  with  false  hopes.  If  you  marry  this 
girl,  you  need  not  expect  a  penny  from  me.  I  will 
not  help  to  ruin  your  future." 

"  Do  you  think  so  badly  of  her,  uncle  ?  "  Maurits 
will  say. 

"No,  on  the  contrary;  she  is  a  nice  girl,  but  still 
not  the  one  for  you.  You  shall  have  a  woman  like 
Elizabeth  Westling.  Be  sensible,  Maurits;  what 
will  become  of  you  if  you  break  off  your  studies  and 
go  into  trade  for  that  child's  sake.  You  are  not 
suited  to  it,  my  boy.  Something  more  is  needed 
for  such  work  than  to  be  able  to  lift  your  hat  grace- 
fully from  your  head  and  to  say :  '  Thank  you,  my 
children !  '  You  are  cut  out  and  made  for  a  civil 
official.  You  can  become  minister." 

"If  you  have  such  a  good  opinion  of  me,"  Maurits 
will  answer,  "help  me  with  my  examination  and  let 
us  afterwards  be  married ! " 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  What  do  you  think  would 
become  of  your  career  if  you  had  such  a  weight  as  a 
wife?  The  horse  which  drags  the  bread  wagon  does 
not  go  fast  ahead.  Think  of  the  girl  from  the 
bakery  as  a  minister's  wife !  No,  you  ought  not  to 
engage  yourself  for  at  least  ten  years,  not  before  you 
have  made  your  place.  What  would  the  result  be  if 
I  helped  you  to  be  married  ?  Every  year  you  would 


DOWNIE  265 

come  to  me  and  beg  for  money.  You  and  I  would 
both  weary  of  that." 

"But,  uncle,  I  am  a  man  of  honor.  I  have 
engaged  myself." 

"Listen,  Maurits !  Which  is  better?  For  her 
to  go  and  wait  for  you  for  ten  years,  and  then  find 
that  you  will  not  marry  her,  or  for  you  to  break  it 
off  now?  No,  be  decided,  get  up,  take  the  chaise 
and  go  home  before  she  wakes.  It  will  never  do  at 
any  rate  for  a  betrothed  couple  to  wander  about  the 
country  by  themselves.  I  will  take  care  of  the  girl 
if  you  only  give  up  this  madness.  My  old  friend 
will  go  home  with  her.  You  shall  be  supported  by 
me  so  that  you  do  not  need  to  worry  about  your 
future.  Now  be  sensible;  you  will  please  your 
parents  by  obeying  me.  Go  now,  without  seeing  her ! 
I  will  talk  to  her.  She  will  not  stand  in  the  way  of  your 
happiness.  Do  not  try  to  see  her  before  you  leave, 
then  you  could  grow  soft-hearted,  for  she  is  sweet." 

And  at  those  words  Maurits  makes  an  heroic 
decision  and  goes  his  way. 

And  when  he  has  gone,  what  will  happen  then  ? 

"Scoundrel,"  sounds  in  the  garden,  loud  and 
threateningly,  as  if  to  a  thief.  Uncle  Theodore 
looks  about  him.  Is  it  no  one  else?  Is  it  only  he 
calling  so  at  himself? 

What  will  happen  afterwards?  Oh,  he  will  pre- 
pare her  for  Maurits's  departure;  show  her  that 
Maurits  was  not  worthy  of  her;  make  her  despise 
him.  And  then  when  she  has  cried  her  heart  out  on 
his  breast,  he  shall  so  carefully,  so  skilfully  make 
her  understand  what  he  feels,  lure  her,  win  her. 

The  down  still  falls.  Uncle  Theodore  stretches 
out  his  big  hand  and  catches  a  bit  of  it. 


266  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

So  fine,  so  light,  so  delicate!  He  stands  and 
looks  at  it. 

It  falls  about  him,  flake  after  flake.  What  will 
become  of  them  ?  They  will  be  driven  by  the  wind, 
soiled  by  the  earth,  trampled  upon  by  heavy  feet. 

He  begins  to  feel  as  if  that  light  down  fell  upon 
him  with  the  heaviest  weight.  Who  will  be  the  wind ; 
who  will  be  the  earth;  who  will  be  the  shoe  when 
it  is  a  question  of  such  defenceless  little  things? 

And  as  a  result  of  his  extraordinary  knowledge  of 
Nosselt's  "Popular  Stories,"  an  episode  from  one  of 
them  occurred  to  him  like  what  he  had  just  been 
thinking. 

It  was  an  early  morning,  not  falling  night  as  now. 
It  was  a  rocky  shore,  and  down  by  the  sea  sat  a 
beautiful  youth  with  a  panther  skin  over  his  shoulder, 
with  vine  leaves  in  his  hair,  with  thyrsus  in  his 
hand.  Who  was  he?  Oh,  the  god  Bacchus  him- 
self. 

And  the  rocky  shore  was  Naxos.  It  was  the  seas 
of  Greece  the  god  saw.  The  ship  with  the  black 
sails  swiftly  sailing  towards  the  horizon  was  steered 
by  Theseus  and  in  the  grotto,  the  entrance  of  which 
opened  high  up  in  a  projection  of  the  steep  cliff, 
slept  Ariadne. 

During  the  night  the  young  god  had  thought :  "  Is 
this  mortal  youth  worthy  of  that  divine  girl !  "  And 
to  test  Theseus  he  had  in  a  dream  frightened  him 
with  the  loss  of  his  life,  if  he  did  not  instantly  for- 
sake Ariadne.  Then  the  latter  had  risen  up,  hast- 
ened to  the  ship,  and  fled  away  over  the  waves 
without  even  waking  the  girl  to  say  good-bye. 

Now  the  god  Bacchus  sat  there  smiling,  rocked 
by  the  tenderest  hopes,  and  waited  for  Ariadne. 


DOWNIE  267 

The  sun  rose,  the  morning  breeze  freshened.  He 
abandoned  himself  to  smiling  dreams.  He  would 
know  well  how  to  console  the  forsaken  one ;  he,  the 
god  Bacchus  himself. 

Then  she  came.  She  walked  out  of  the  grotto 
with  a  beaming  smile.  Her  eyes  sought  Theseus, 
they  wandered  farther  away  to  the  anchoring-place 
of  the  ship,  to  the  sea  —  to  the  black  sails. 

And  then  with  a  piercing  scream,  without  con- 
sideration, without  hesitation,  down  into  the  waves, 
down  to  death  and  oblivion. 

And  there  sat  the  god  Bacchus,  the  consoler. 

So  it  was.  Thus  had  it  actually  happened.  Uncle 
Theodore  remembers  that  Nosselt  adds  in  a  few 
words  that  sympathetic  poets  affirm  that  Ariadne  let 
herself  be  consoled  by  Bacchus.  But  the  sympa- 
thizers were  certainly  wrong.  Ariadne  would  not 
be  consoled. 

Good  God,  because  she  is  good  and  sweet,  so  that 
he  must  love  her,  shall  she  for  that  reason  be  made 
unhappy ! 

As  a  reward  for  the  sweet  little  smiles  she  had 
given  him ;  because  her  soft  little  hand  had  lain  so 
trustingly  in  his;  because  she  had  not  been  angry 
when  he  jested,  shall  she  lose  her  betrothed  and  be 
made  unhappy? 

For  which  of  all  her  misdemeanors  shall  she  be 
condemned  ?  Because  she  has  shown  him  a  room  in 
his  innermost  soul,  which  seems  to  have  stood  fine 
and  clean  and  unoccupied  all  these  years  awaiting 
just  such  a  tender  and  motherly  little  woman;  or 
because  she  has  already  such  power  over  him  that 
he  hardly  dares  to  swear  lest  she  hear  it;  or  for 
what  shall  she  be  condemned? 


268  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Oh,  poor  Bacchus,  poor  Uncle  Theodore !  It  is 
not  easy  to  have  to  do  with  such  delicate,  light 
bits  of  down.  —  They  leap  into  the  sea  when  they 
see  the  black  sails. 

Uncle  Theodore  swears  softly  because  Downie 
has  not  black  hair,  red  cheeks,  coarse  limbs. 

Then  another  flake  falls  and  it  begins  to  speak: 
"  It  is  I  who  would  have  followed  you  all  your  days. 
I  would  have  whispered  a  warning  in  your  ear  at  the 
card-table.  I  would  have  moved  away  the  wine- 
glass. You  would  have  borne  it  from  me."  "I 
would,"  he  whispers,  "I  would." 

Another  comes  and  speaks  too:  "It  is  I  who 
would  have  reigned  over  your  big  house  and  made  it 
cheery  and  warm.  It  is  I  who  would  have  followed 
you  through  the  desert  of  old  age.  I  would  have 
lighted  your  fire,  have  been  your  eyes  and  your 
staff.  Should  I  have  been  fit  for  that?"  "Sweet 
little  Downie,"  he  answers,  "you  would." 

Again  a  flake  comes  and  says :  "  I  am  so  to  be 
pitied.  To-morrow  my  betrothed  is  leaving  me 
without  even  saying  farewell.  To-morrow  I  shall 
weep,  weep  all  day  long,  for  I  shall  feel  the  shame 
of  not  being  good  enough  for  Maurits.  And  when 
I  come  home  —  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  be  able 
to  come  home;  how  I  can  cross  my  father's  thresh- 
old after  this.  The  whole  street  will  be  full  of 
whispering  and  gossip  when  I  show  myself.  Every 
one  will  wonder  what  evil  thing  I  have  done,  to  be 
so  badly  treated.  Is  it  my  fault  that  you  love  me  ?  " 
He  answers  with  a  sob  in  his  throat:  "Do  not  speak 
so,  little  Downie !  It  is  too  soon  to  speak  so. " 

He  wanders  there  the  whole  night  and  towards 
midnight  comes  a  little  darkness.  He  is  in  great 


DOWNIE  269 

trouble;  the  heavy,  sultry  air  seems  to  be  still  in 
terror  of  some  crime  which  is  to  be  committed  in 
the  morning. 

He  tries  to  calm  the  night  by  saying  aloud :  "  I 
shall  not  do  it." 

Then  the  most  wonderful  thing  happens.  The 
night  is  seized  with  a  trembling  dread.  It  is  no 
longer  the  little  flakes  which  are  falling,  but  round 
about  him  rustle  great  and  small  wings.  He  hears 
something  flying  but  does  not  know  whither. 

They  rush  by  him;  they  graze  his  cheek;  they 
touch  his  clothes  and  hands;  and  he  understands 
what  it  is.  The  leaves  are  falling  from  the  trees; 
the  flowers  flee  from  their  stalks;  the  wings  fly  away 
from  the  butterflies ;  the  song  forsakes  the  birds. 

And  he  understands  that  when  the  sun  rises  his 
garden  will  be  a  waste.  Empty,  cold,  and  silent 
winter  shall  reign  there;  no  play  of  butterflies;  no 
song  of  birds. 

He  remains  until  the  light  comes  again,  and  he  is 
almost  astonished  when  he  sees  the  thick  masses  of 
leaves  on  the  trees.  "What  is  it,  then,"  he  says, 
"which  is  laid  waste  if  it  was  not  the  garden ?  Not 
even  a  blade  of  grass  is  missing.  It  is  I  who  must 
live  in  winter  and  cold  hereafter,  not  the  garden. 
It  is  as  if  the  mainspring  of  life  were  gone.  Ah, 
you  old  fool,  this  will  pass  like  everything  else.  It- 
is  too  much  ado  about  a  little  girl." 

IV 

How  very  improperly  "  it "  behaved  the  morning 
they  were  to  leave !  During  the  two  days  after  the 
ball  "  it "  had  been  rather  something  inspiring, 


270  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

something  exciting;  but  now  when  Downie  is  to 
leave,  when  "it"  realizes  that  the  end  has  come, 
that  "  it "  will  never  play  any  part  in  her  life,  then 
it  changes  to  a  death  thrust,  to  a  deathly  coldness. 

She  feels  as  if  she  were  dragging  a  body  of  stone 
down  the  stairs  to  the  breakfast-room.  She  stretches 
out  a  heavy,  cold  hand  of  stone  when  she  says  good- 
morning;  she  speaks  with  a  slow  tongue  of  stone; 
smiles  with  hard  stone  lips.  It  is  a  labor,  a  labor. 

But  who  can  help  being  glad  when  everything  is 
arranged  according  to  old-fashioned  faith  and  honor. 

Uncle  Theodore  turns  to  Downie  at  breakfast 
and  explains  with  a  strangely  harsh  voice  that  he 
has  decided  to  give  Maurits  the  position  of  manager 
at  Laxohyttan;  but  as  the  aforesaid  young  man, 
continued  Uncle,  with  a  strained  attempt  to  return 
to  his  usual  manner,  is  not  much  at  home  in  prac- 
tical occupations,  he  may  not  enter  upon  the  posi- 
tion until  he  has  a  wife  at  his  side.  Has  she,  Miss 
Downie,  tended  her  myrtle  so  well  that  she  can 
have  a  crown  and  wreath  in  September? 

She  feels  how  he  is  looking  into  her  face.  She 
knows  that  he  wishes  to  have  a  glance  as  thanks, 
but  she  does  not  look  up. 

Maurits  leaps  up.  He  embraces  Uncle  and  makes 
a  great  deal  of  noise.  "But,  Anne-Marie,  why  do 
you  not  thank  Uncle?  You  must  kiss  Uncle 
Theodore,  Anne-Marie.  Laxohyttan  is  the  most 
beautiful  place  in  the  world.  Come  now,  Anne- 
Marie!" 

She  raises  her  eyes.  There  are  tears  in  them, 
and  through  the  tears  a  glance  full  of  despair  and 
reproach  falls  on  Maurits.  She  cannot  understand; 
he  insists  upon  going  with  an  uncovered  light  into 


DOWNIE  271 

the  powder  magazine.  Then  she  turns  to  Uncle 
Theodore;  but  not  with  the  shy,  childish  manner 
she  had  before,  but  with  a  certain  nobleness,  with 
something  of  the  martyr,  of  an  imprisoned  queen. 

"You  are  much  too  good  to  us,"  she  says  only. 

Thus  is  everything  accomplished  according  to  the 
demands  of  honor.  There  is  not  another  word  to  be 
said  in  the  matter.  He  has  not  robbed  her  of  her 
faith  in  him  whom  she  loves.  She  has  not  betrayed 
herself.  She  is  faithful  to  him  who  has  made  her 
his  betrothed,  although  she  is  only  a  poor  girl  from 
a  little  bakery  in  a  back  street. 

And  now  the  chaise  can  be  brought  up,  the  trunks 
be  corded,  the  luncheon-basket  filled. 

Uncle  Theodore  leaves  the  table.  He  goes  and 
places  himself  by  a  window.  Ever  since  she  has 
turned  to  him  with  that  tearful  glance  he  is  out  of 
his  senses.  He  is  quite  mad,  ready  to  throw  him- 
self upon  her,  press  her  to  his  breast  and  call  to 
Maurits  to  come  and  tear  her  away  if  he  can. 

His  hands  are  in  his  pockets.  Through  the 
clenched  fists  cramp-like  convulsions  are  passing. 

Can  he  allow  her  to  put  on  her  hat,  to  say  good- 
bye to  the  old  lady  ? 

There  he  stands  again  on  the  cliff  of  Naxos  and 
wishes  to  steal  the  beloved  for  himself.  No,  not 
steal !  Why  not  honorably  and  manfully  step  for- 
ward and  say :  "  I  am  your  rival,  Maurits.  Your 
betrothed  must  choose  between  us.  You  are  not 
married ;  there  is  no  sin  in  trying  to  win  her  from 
you.  Look  well  after  her.  I  mean  to  use  every 
expedient." 

Then  he  would  be  warned,  and  she  would  know 
what  alternative  lay  before  her. 


2/2  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

His  knuckles  cracked  when  he  clenched  his  fists 
again.  How  Maurits  would  laugh  at  his  old  uncle 
when  he  stepped  forward  and  explained  that !  And 
what  would  be  the  good  of  it  ?  Would  he  frighten 
her,  so  that  he  would  not  even  be  allowed  to  help 
them  in  the  future  ? 

But  how  will  it  go  now  when  she  approaches  to 
say  good-bye  to  him?  He  almost  screams  to  her  to 
take  care,  to  keep  three  paces  away  from  him. 

He  remains  at  the  window  and  turns  his  back  on 
them  all,  while  they  are  busy  with  their  wraps  and 
their  luncheon-basket.  Will  they  never  be  ready 
to  go?  He  has  already  lived  it  through  a  thousand 
times.  He  has  taken  her  hand,  kissed  her,  helped 
her  into  the  chaise.  He  has  done  it  so  many  times 
that  he  believes  she  is  already  gone. 

He  has  also  wished  her  happiness.  Happiness  — 
Can  she  be  happy  with  Maurits?  She  has  not 
looked  happy  this  morning.  Oh  yes,  certainly  she 
has.  She  wept  with  joy. 

While  he  is  standing  there  Maurits  suddenly  says 
to  Anne-Marie :  "  What  a  dunce  I  am  !  I  am  quite 
forgetting  to  speak  to  Uncle  about  father's  shares." 

"I  think  it  would  be  best  if  you  did  not,"  Downie 
answers.  "  Perhaps  it  is  not  right. " 

"  Nonsense,  Anne-Marie.  The  shares  do  not  pay 
anything  just  now.  But  who  knows  if  they  will  not 
be  better  some  day?  And  besides,  what  does  it 
matter  to  Uncle?  Such  a  little  thing  — " 

She  interrupts  with  unusual  eagerness,  almost 
anxiously.  "I  beg  of  you,  Maurits,  do  not  do  it. 
Give  in  to  me  this  once." 

He  looks  at  her,  a  little  offended.  "This  once! 
—  as  if  I  were  a  tyrant  over  you.  No,  do  you  see, 


DOWNIE  273 

I  cannot;  just  for  that  word  I  think  that  I  ought 
not  to  yield." 

"  Do  not  cling  to  a  word,  Maurits.  This  means 
more  than  polite  phrases.  I  think  it  is  not  well  of 
you  to  wish  to  cheat  Uncle  now  when  he  has  been 
so  good  to  us. " 

"Be  quiet,  Anne-Marie,  be  quiet!  What  do  you 
understand  of  business?"  His  whole  manner  is 
now  irritatingly  calm  and  superior.  He  looks  at 
her  as  a  schoolmaster  looks  at  a  good  pupil  who  is 
making  a  fool  of  himself  at  hjs  examination. 

"That  you  do  not  at  all  understand  what  is  at 
stake !  "  she  cries.  And  she  strikes  out  despairingly 
with  her  hands. 

"I  really  must  talk  to  Uncle  now,"  says  Maurits, 
"  if  for  nothing  else,  to  show  him  that  there  is  no 
question  of  any  deceit.  You  behave  so  that  Uncle 
can  believe  that  I  and  my  father  are  veritable 
cheats." 

And  he  comes  forward  to  his  uncle  and  explains 
to  him  what  these  shares  which  his  father  wishes  to 
sell  him  are.  Uncle  Theodore  listens  to  him  as 
well  as  he  can.  He  understands  instantly  that  his 
brother  has  made  a  bad  speculation  and  wishes  to 
protect  himself  from  loss.  But  what  of  it,  what  of 
it?  He  is  accustomed  to  render  to  the  whole  family 
connection  such  services.  But  he  is  not  thinking 
of  that,  but  of  Downie.  He  wonders  what  is  the 
meaning  of  that  look  of  resentment  she  casts  upon 
Maurits.  It  was  not  exactly  Ibve. 

And  so  in  the  midst  of  his  despair  over  the  sacri- 
fice he  has  to  make,  a  faint  glimmer  of  hope  begins 
to  rise  up  before  him.  He  stands  and  stares  at  it 
like  a  man  who  is  sleeping  in  a  haunted  room  and 

18 


274  INVISIBLE   LINKS 

sees  a  light  mist  rise  from  the  floor  and  condense 
and  grow  and  become  a  tangible  reality. 

"Come  with  me  into  my  room,  Maurits,"  he  says; 
"you  shall  have  the  money  immediately." 

But  while  he  speaks  his  eyes  rest  on  Downie  to 
see  if  the  ghost  can  be  prevailed  upon  to  speak. 
But  as  yet  he  sees  only  dumb  despair  in  her. 

But  he  has  hardly  sat  down  by  the  desk  in  his 
room  when  the  door  opens  and  Anne-Marie  comes  in. 

"Uncle  Theodore,"  she  says,  very  firmly  and 
decidedly,  "do  not  buy  those  papers!" 

Ah,  such  courage,  Downie!  Who  would  have 
believed  it  of  you  who  had  seen  you  three  days  ago, 
when  you  sat  at  Maurits' s  side  in  the  chaise  and 
seemed  to  shrink  and  grow  smaller  for  every  word 
he  said. 

Now  she  needs  all  her  courage,  for  Maurits  is 
angry  in  earnest. 

"  Hold  your  tongue ! "  he  hisses  at  her,  and  then 
roars  to  make  himself  heard  by  Uncle  Theodore, 
who  is  sitting  at  his  desk  and  counting  notes. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  The  shares  give 
no  interest  now;  I  have  told  Uncle  that;  but  Uncle 
knows  as  well  as  I  that  they  will  pay.  Do  you 
think  Uncle  will  let  himself  be  cheated  by  one  like 
me  ?  Uncle  surely  understands  those  things  better 
than  any  of  us.  Has  it  ever  been  my  intention  to 
give  out  these  shares  as  good?  Have  I  said  any- 
thing but  that  for  him  who  can  wait  it  may  be  a 
good  affair?" 

Uncle  Theodore  says  nothing;  he  only  hands  a 
package  of  notes  to  Maurits.  He  wonders  if  this 
will  make  the  ghost  speak. 

"Uncle,"  says  the  little  intractable  proclaimer  of 


DOWNIE  275 

the  truth,  for  it  is  a  known  fact  that  no  one  can  be 
more  intractable  than  those  soft,  delicate  creatures 
when  they  are  in  the  right,  "these  shares  are  not 
worth  a  shilling  and  will  never  be.  We  all  know 
it  at  home  there." 

"  Anne-Marie,  you  make  me  out  a  scoundrel ! " 

She  surveys  him  all  over  as  if  her  eyes  were  the 
moving  blades  of  a  pair  of  scissors,  and  she  cuts  off 
him  bit  by  bit  everything  in  which  she  had  clothed 
him;  and  when  at  last  she  sees  him  in  all  the 
nakedness  of  egotism  and  selfishness,  her  terrible 
little  tongue  passes  sentence  upon  him :  — 

"  What  else  are  you  ?  " 

"  Anne-Marie ! " 

"Yes,  what  else  are  we  both,"  continues  the 
merciless  tongue,  which,  since  it  has  once  started, 
finds  it  best  to  clear  up  this  matter  which  has  tor- 
tured her  conscience  ever  since  she  has  begun  to 
realize  that  this  rich  man  who  owned  this  big  estate 
had  a  heart  too  which  could  suffer  and  yearn.  So 
while  her  tongue  is  so  well  started  and  all  shyness 
seems  to  have  fallen  from  her,  she  says :  — 

"  When  we  placed  ourselves  in  the  chaise  at  home 
there,  what  did  we  think  ?  What  did  we  talk  about 
on  the  way?  About  how  we  would  deceive  him 
there.  '  You  must  be  brave,  Anne-Marie, '  you  said. 
'  And  you  must  be  crafty,  Maurits, '  I  said.  We 
thought  only  of  ingratiating  ourselves.  We  wished 
to  have  much  and  we  wished  to  give  nothing  except 
hypocrisy.  It  was  not  our  intention  to  say :  '  Help 
us,  because  we  are  poor  and  care  for  one  another, ' 
but  we  were  to  flatter  and  fawn  until  Uncle  was 
charmed  by  me  or  by  you ;  that  was  our  intention. 
But  we  meant  to  give  nothing  in  return;  neither  love 


2/6  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

nor  respect  nor  even  gratitude.  And  why  did  you 
not  come  alone,  why  must  I  come  too  ?  You  wished 
to  show  me  to  him ;  you  wished  me  to  —  to  —  " 

Uncle  Theodore  rises  when  he  sees  Maurits  raise 
his  hand  against  her.  For  now  he  has  finished 
counting,  and  follows  what  is  passing  with  his  heart 
swelling  with  hope.  His  heart  flies  wide  open  to 
receive  her  as  she  now  screams  and  runs  into  his 
arms,  runs  there  without  hestitation  or  considera- 
tion, quite  as  if  there  were  no  other  place  on  earth 
to  which  to  run. 

"  Uncle,  he  will  strike  me ! " 

And  she  presses  close,  close  to  him. 

But  Maurits  is  now  calm  again.  "  Forgive  my 
impetuosity,  Anne-Marie,"  he  says.  "It  hurt  me 
to  hear  you  speak  in  such  a  childish  way  in  Uncle's 
presence.  But  Uncle  must  also  understand  that 
you  are  only  a  child.  Still  I  grant  that  not  even 
the  most  just  wrath  gives  a  man  the  right  to  strike  a 
woman.  Come  here  now  and  kiss  me.  You  need 
not  seek  protection  from  me  with  anybody.  ' 

She  does  not  move,  does  not  turn,  only  clings 
more  closely. 

"  Downie,  shall  I  let  him  take  you  ? "  whispers 
Uncle  Theodore. 

She  answers  only  with  a  shudder,  which  quivers 
through  him  also. 

Uncle  Theodore  feels  so  strong,  so  inspired.  He, 
too,  no  longer  sees  his  perfect  nephew  as  before  in 
the  bright  light  of  his  perfection.  He  dares  to  jest 
with  him. 

"Maurits,"  he  says,  "you  surprise  me.  Love 
makes  you  weak.  Can  you  so  promptly  forgive  her 
having  called  you  a  scoundrel  ?  You  must  break 


DOWNIE  277 

with  her  instantly.  Your  honor,  Maurits,  think  of 
your  honor!  Nothing  in  the  world  can  permit  a 
woman  to  insult  a  man.  Place  yourself  in  the 
chaise,  my  boy,  and  go  away  without  this  abandoned 
creature !  It  is  only  pure  and  simple  justice  after 
such  an  insult." 

As  he  finishes  this  speech,  he  puts  his  big  hands 
about  her  head  and  bends  it  back  so  that  he  can 
kiss  her  forehead. 

"  Give  up  this  abandoned  creature ! "  he  repeats. 

But  now  Maurits  begins  to  understand  also.  He 
sees  the  light  in  Uncle  Theodore's  eyes  and  how 
one  smile  after  the  other  dances  over  his  lips. 

"Come,  Anne-Marie!" 

She  starts.  Now  he  calls  her  as  the  man  to 
whom  she  has  promised  herself.  She  feels  she 
must  obey.  And  she  lets  go  of  Uncle  Theodore  so 
suddenly  that  he  cannot  stop  her,  but  she  cannot  go 
to  Maurits ;  so  she  slides  down  to  the  floor  and  there 
she  remains  sitting  and  sobs. 

"Go  home  alone  in  your  chaise,  Maurits,"  says 
Uncle  Theodore  sharply.  "This  young  lady  is 
guest  in  my  house  as  yet,  and  I  intend  to  protect 
her  from  your  interference." 

He  no  longer  thinks  of  Maurits,  but  only  to  lift 
her  up,  dry  her  tears  and  whisper  that  he  loves  her. 

Maurits,  who  sees  them,  the  one  weeping,  the 
other  comforting,  cries:  "Oh,  this  is  a  conspiracy! 
I  am  tricked !  This  is  a  comedy !  You  have  stolen 
my  betrothed  from  me  and  you  mock  me !  You  let 
me  call  one  who  never  intends  to  come!  I  con- 
gratulate you  on  this  affair,  Anne-Marie ! " 

As  he  rushes  out  and  slams  the  door,  he  calls 
back :  "  Fortune-hunter ! " 


2/8  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

Uncle  Theodore  makes  a  movement  as  if  to  go 
after  him  and  chastise  him,  but  Downie  holds  him 
back. 

"Ah,  Uncle  Theodore,  do  let  Maurits  have  the 
last  word.  Maurits  is  always  right.  Fortune- 
hunter, —  that  is  just  what  I  am,  Uncle  Theodore." 

She  creeps  again  close  to  him  without  hesitation, 
without  question.  And  Uncle  Theodore  is  quite 
confused;  just  now  she  was  weeping  and  now  she  is 
laughing;  just  now  she  was  going  to  marry  one  man 
and  now  she  is  caressing  another.  Then  she  lifts 
up  her  head  and  smiles:  "Now  I  am  your  little 
dog.  You  cannot  be  rid  of  me." 

"  Downie,"  says  Uncle  Theodore  with  his  gruffest 
voice :  "  You  have  known  it  the  whole  time ! " 

She  began  to  whisper:  " Had  my  brother —  " 

"And  yet  you  wished,  Downie —  Maurits  is  lucky 
to  be  rid  of  you.  Such  a  foolish,  deceitful,  hypo- 
critical Downie,  such  an  unreliable  little  wisp,  such 
a,  such  a  —  " 

Ah,  Downie,  ah,  silken  flower !  You  were  cer- 
tainly not  a  fortune-hunter  only;  you  were  also  a 
fortune-giver,  otherwise  there  would  be  nothing  left 
of  your  happy  peace  in  the  house  where  you  lived. 
To  this  day  the  garden  is  shaded  by  big  beeches  and 
the  birch  tree  trunks  stand  there  white  and  spotless 
from  the  root  upwards.  To  this  day  the  snake  suns 
himself  in  peace  on  the  slope,  and  in  the  pond  in 
the  park  swims  a  carp  which  is  so  old  that  no  boy 
has  the  heart  to  catch  it.  And  when  I  come  there, 
I  feel  that  there  is  festival  in  the  air,  and  it  seems 
as  if  the  birds  and  flowers  still  sang  their  beautiful 
3ongs  of  you. 


AMONG    THE    CLIMBING    ROSES 


AMONG  THE   CLIMBING   ROSES 

I  COULD  wish  that  the  people  with  whom  I  have 
spent  my  summer  would  let  their  glance  fall  on 
these  lines.  Now  when  the  cold,  dark  nights  have 
come,  I  should  like  to  carry  their  thoughts  back  to 
that  bright,  warm  season. 

Above  all,  I  should  like  to  remind  them  of  the 
climbing-roses  that  enclosed  the  veranda,  of  the 
delicate,  somewhat  thin  foliage  of  the  clematis, 
which  in  the  sunlight  as  well  as  in  the  moonlight 
was  drawn  in  dark  gray  shadows  on  the  light  gray 
stone  floor  and  threw  a  light  lace-like  veil  over 
everything,  and  of  its  big,  bright  blossoms  with 
their  ragged  edges. 

Other  summers  remind  me  of  fields  of  clover,  or 
of  birch-woods,  or  of  apple-trees  and  berry  bushes, 
but  that  summer  took  its  character  from  the  climb- 
ing-roses. The  bright,  delicate  buds,  that  could 
resist  neither  wind  nor  rain,  the  light,  waving, 
pale-green  shoots,'  the  soft,  bending  stems,  the 
exuberant  richness  of  blossoms,  the  gaily  humming 
hosts  of  insects,  all  follow  me  and  rise  up  before  me 
in  their  glory,  when  I  think  of  that  summer,  that 
rosy,  delicate,  dainty  summer. 

Now,  when  the  time  for  work  has  come,  people 
often  ask  me  how  I  passed  my  summer.  Then 
everything  glides  from  my  memory,  and  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  had  sat  day  in  and  clay  out  on  the 


282  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

veranda  behind  the  climbing  roses  and  breathed  in 
fragrance  and  sunshine.  What  did  I  do?  Oh,  I 
watched  others  work. 

There  was  a  little  upholsterer  bee  which  worked 
from  morning  till  night,  from  night  till  morning. 
From  the  soft,  green  leaves  it  sawed  out  a  neat  little 
oval  with  its  sharp  jaws,  rolled  it  together  as  one 
rolls  up  a  real  carpet,  and  with  the  precious  burden 
pressed  to  it,  it  fluttered  away  to  the  park  and 
lighted  on  an  old  tree  stump.  There  it  burrowed 
down  through  dark  passage-ways  and  mysterious 
galleries,  until  at  last  it  reached  the  bottom  of  a 
perpendicular  shaft.  In  its  unknown  depths,  where 
neither  ant  nor  centipede  ever  had  ventured,  it 
spread  out  the  green  leaf  roll  and  covered  the  uneven 
floor  with  the  most  beautiful  carpet.  And  when 
the  floor  was  covered,  the  bee  came  back  for  new 
leaves  to  cover  the  walls  of  the  shaft,  and  worked  so 
quickly  and  eagerly,  that  there  was  soon  not  a  leaf 
in  the  rose  hedge  that  did  not  have  an  oval  hole 
which  bore  testimony  that  it  had  been  forced  to 
assist  in  the  adorning  of  the  old  tree-stump. 

One  fine  day  the  little  bee  changed  its  occupation. 
It  bored  deep  in  among  the  ragged  petals  of  the 
full-blown  roses,  sucked  and  drank  all  it  could  in 
those  beautiful  larders,  and  when  it  had  got  its  fill, 
it  flew  quickly  away  to  the  old  stump  to  fill  the 
freshly-papered  chambers  with  brightest  honey. 

The  little  upholsterer  bee  was  not  the  only  one 
who  worked  in  the  rose-bushes.  There  was  also  a 
spider,  a  quite  unparalleled  spider.  It  was  bigger 
than  any  spider  I  have  ever  seen;  it  was  bright 
orange  with  a  clearly  marked  cross  on  its  back,  and 
it  had  eight  long,  red-and-white  striped  legs,  all 


AMONG   THE   CLIMBING  ROSES  283 

equally  well  marked.  You  ought  to  have  seen  it 
spin !  Every  thread  was  drawn  out  with  the  greatest 
precision  from  the  first  ones  that  were  only  for  sup- 
ports to  the  last  fine  connecting  thread.  And  you 
should  have  seen  it  balance  its  way  along  the  slender 
threads  to  seize  a  fly  or  to  take  its  place  in  the  middle 
of  the  web,  motionless,  patient,  waiting  for  hours. 

That  big,  orange  spider  won  my  heart ;  he  was  so 
patient  and  so  wise.  Every  day  he  had  his  little 
encounter  with  the  upholsterer  bee,  and  he  always 
came  out  of  the  affair  with  the  same  unfailing  tact. 
The  bee  who  took  his  way  close  by  him  caught  time 
and  time  again  in  his  net.  Instantly  it  began  to 
buzz  and  tear ;  it  dragged  at  the  fine  web  and  behaved 
like  a  mad  thing,  which  naturally  resulted  in  its 
being  more  and  more  entangled  and  getting  both 
legs  and  wings  wound  up  in  the  sticky  net. 

As  soon  as  the  bee  was  exhausted  and  weakened, 
the  spider  came  creeping  out  to  it.  It  kept  always 
at  a  respectful  distance,  but  with  the  extreme  end 
of  one  of  the  beautiful,  red-striped  legs  it  gave  the 
bee  a  little  push,  so  that  it  swung  round  in  the  web. 
When  the  bee  had  again  buzzed  and  raged  itself 
tired,  it  received  another  gentle  shove,  and  then 
another  and  yet  another,  until  it  spun  round  like  a 
top  and  did  not  know  what  it  was  doing  in  its  fury, 
and  became  so  confused  that  it  could  not  defend 
itself.  But  during  the  whirling  the  threads  that 
held  it  fast  twisted  ever  more  tightly,  till  the  tension 
became  so  great  that  they  broke,  and  the  bee  fell  to 
the  ground.  Yes,  that  was  what  the  spider  had 
wished,  of  course. 

And  that  performance  could  they  repeat,  those 
two,  day  after  day  as  long  as  the  bee  had  work  in 


284  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

the  rose-bushes.  Never  could  the  little  bee  learn  to 
look  out  for  the  spider-web,  and  never  did  the  spider 
show  anger  or  impatience.  I  liked  them  both;  the 
little,  eager,  furry  worker,  as  well  as  the  big,  crafty, 
old  hunter. 

Very  few  great  events  happened  in  the  garden  of 
the  climbing-roses.  Between  the  espaliers  one  could 
see  the  little  lake  lying  and  twinkling  in  the  sun- 
light. And  it  was  a  lake  which  was  too  little  and 
too  shut  in  to  be  able  to  heave  in  real  waves,  but  at 
every  little  ripple  on  the  gray  surface  thousands  of 
small  sparkles  that  glistened  and  played  on  the 
waves  flew  up;  it  seemed  as  if  its  depths  had  been 
full  of  fire  that  could  not  get  out.  And  it  was  the 
same  with  the  summer  life  there ;  it  was  usually  so 
quiet,  but  if  there  came  the  slightest,  little  ripple 
—  oh,  how  it  could  shine  and  glitter ! 

We  needed  nothing  great  to  make  us  happy.  A 
flower  or  a  bird  could  make  us  merry  for  several 
hours,  not  to  speak  of  the  upholsterer  bee.  I  shall 
never  forget  what  pleasure  I  had  once  on  his  account. 

The  bee  had  been  in  the  spider-web  as  usual,  and 
the  spider  had  as  usual  helped  him  out ;  but  it  had 
been  fastened  so  securely  that  it  had  had  to  buzz  a 
dreadfully  long  time  and  had  been  very  tamed  and 
subdued  when  it  had  flown  away.  I  bent  forward 
to  see  if  the  spider-web  had  suffered  much  damage. 
Fortunately  it  had  not ;  but  on  the  other  hand  a  little 
yellow  larva  was  caught  in  the  web,  a  little  thread- 
like monster,  which  consisted  of  only  jaws  and 
claws,  and  I  was  agitated,  really  agitated,  at  the 
sight  of  it. 

I  knew  them,  those  May-bug  larvae,  that  in  thou- 
sands crawl  up  on  the  flowers  and  hide  themselves 


AMONG   THE   CLIMBING  ROSES  285 

under  their  petals.  Did  I  not  know  them  and  yet 
admire  them,  those  bold,  cunning  parasites,  that  sit 
hidden  and  wait,  only  wait,  even  if  it  is  for  weeks, 
until  a  bee  comes,  in  whose  yellow  and  black  down 
they  can  hide.  And  did  I  not  know  their  hateful 
skill  just  when  the  little  cell-builder  has  filled  a 
room  with  honey  and  on  its  surface  laid  the  egg 
from  which  the  rightful  owner  of  the  cell  and  the 
honey  will  come  forth,  just  then  to  creep  down  on 
the  egg  and  with  careful  balancing  sit  on  it  as  on  a 
boat ;  for  if  they  should  come  down  into  the  honey, 
they  would  drown.  And  while  the  bee  covers  the 
thimble-like  cell  with  a  green  roof  and  carefully 
shuts  in  its  young  one,  the  yellow  larva  tears  open 
the  egg  with  its  sharp  jaws  and  devours  its  contents, 
while  the  egg-shell  has  still  to  serve  as  craft  on  the 
dangerous  honey-sea. 

But  gradually  the  little  yellow  larva  grows  flat 
and  big  and  can  swim  by  itself  on  the  honey  and 
drink  of  it,  and  in  the  course  of  time  a  fat,  black 
beetle  comes  out  of  the  bee-cell.  It  is  certain  that 
this  is  not  what  the  little  bee  wished  to  effect  by 
its  work,  and  however  cunningly  and  cleverly  the 
beetle  may  have  behaved,  it  is  nevertheless  nothing 
but  a  lazy  parasite,  who  deserves  no  sympathy. 

And  my  bee,  my  own  little,  industrious  bee,  had 
flown  about  with  such  a  yellow  hanger-on  in  its 
down.  But  while  the  spider  had  spun  round  with 
it,  the  larva  had  loosened  and  fallen  down  on  the 
spider-web,  and  now  the  big,  orange  spider  came  and 
gave  it  a  bite  and  transformed  it  in  a  second  into  a 
skeleton  without  life  or  substance. 

When  the  little  bee  came  again,  its  humming  was 
like  a  hymn  to  life. 


286  INVISIBLE  LINKS 

"Oh,  thou  beauteous  life,"  it  said.  "I  thank 
thee  that  happy  work  among  roses  and  sunshine  has 
fallen  to  my  lot.  I  thank  thee  that  I  can  enjoy  thee 
without  anxiety  or  fear. 

"Well  I  know  that  spiders  lie  in  wait  and  beetles 
steal,  but  happy  work  is  mine,  and  brave  freedom 
from  care.  Oh,  thou  beauteous  life,  thou  glorious 
existence!" 


THE 

STORY  OF  GO5TA  BERLING 

By  SELMA  LAGERLOF.  Translated  from 
the  Swedish  by  PAULINE  BANCROFT  FLACH. 
J2mo,  cloth,  $1.75. 


A  veritable  epic.  —  London  Telegraph. 

A  remarkable  piece  of  work,  by  far  the  most  notable  novel  of  the  year,  and 
in  some  respects  of  several  years.  —  Literary  World. 

The  most  remarkable  and  vivid  story  that  has  appeared  in  this  country  in 
many  years.  —  Minneapolis  Tribune. 

Bubbling  over  with  enthusiasm  for  the  beautiful  and  the  heroic,  instinct 
with  a  juvenile  freshness  and  vigor,  giving  the  freest  play  to  an  exuberant 
fancy  and  a  world-wide  imagination,  and  abounding  with  wondrous  adven- 
tures and  masterly  descriptions  presented  in  a  style  of  singular  purity. — 
London  Daily  Chronicle. 

It  has  the  double  claim  of  a  revelation  of  an  almost  unknown  world,  and  as 
a  piece  of  most  exquisite  writing.  —  New  York  Times. 

Startling  in  its  treatment  and  in  its  depth  of  feeling.  .  .  .  Seldom  does  a 
story  that  is  more  intensely  human  and  more  at  variance  with  our  ways  and 
customs  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  translator.  —  Boston  Herald. 

The  story  takes  upon  itself  heroic  proportions,  and  becomes  invested  with 
the  attributes  of  the  epic.  —  The  Dial. 

It  is  the  folk-lore,  the  fireside  tradition,  told  in  a  way  almost  Homeric.  .  .  . 
What  Sienkiewicz  does  for  Poland  and  Russia,  Miss  Lagerlbf  does  for  Sweden. 
—  Boston  Transcript. 

In  addition  to  the  rough  vigor  with  which  the  author  has  brought  before  us 
such  situations,  Miss  Lagerlof  has  put  into  these  tales  episodes  and  conversa- 
tions, philosophy  and  poetry,  exquisite  in  conception  and  expression.  —  Brooklyn 
Eagle. 

Displays  a  truly  remarkable  knowledge  of  character,  and  an  almost  equally 
remarkable  power  of  delineation,  while  in  her  descriptive  passages  she  delights 
us  with  her  bold,  fresh,  and  splendid  pictures.  .  .  .  Justifies  the  belief  that  Miss 
Lagerlof  to-day  has  a  wonderful  literary  future.  —  Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

Of  such  marked  power  that  unless  Miss  Lagerlof  is  unable  to  sustain  the 
force  indicated  by  this  example  of  her  work,  she  will  become  one  of  the  great 
novelists  of  the  continent.  —  Public  Opinion. 


Little,  Brown,  &  Company,  Publishers, 

254  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON. 


THE 

MIRACLES  OF  ANTICHRIST 

A  Novel.  By  SELMA  LAGERLOF.  Translated 
from  the  Swedish  by  PAULINE  BANCROFT  FLACH. 
J2mo,  cloth,  $1.50.  Popular  Edition,  75  cents. 


A  careful  examination  of  the  book  has  convinced  us  that  Miss  [Mrs.] 
Flach's  translation  is  excellent  throughout,  and  that  this  delightful  book  has 
been  rendered  into  almost  equally  delightful  English.  "  The  Miracles  of  Anti- 
christ" is  undoubtedly  a  masterpiece.  —  London  Daily  Chronicle. 

Represents  the  more  mature  •work  of  an  author  who  may  be  said  to  have 
literally  leaped  from  obscurity  to  fame.  —  Detroit  Free.  Press. 

Perhaps  the  most  remarkable  feature  of  Miss  Lagerlbf's  book  is  the  manner 
in  which  she  has  entered  into  the  lives  of  a  people  so  remote  from  her  own, 
interpreting  with  the  insight  of  genius  the  quaint  superstitions,  the  picturesque 
poverty,  the  fierce  vindictiveness,  and  the  impulsive  devotion  of  these  children 
of  nature.  .  .  .  One  cannot  read  "  The  Miracles  of  Antichrist "  without  noting 
a  startling  originality.  —  Public  Opinion. 

Its  originality  is  marked.  One  feels  instinctively  that  Miss  Lagerldf  has 
studied  her  characters  at  first  hand,  and  she  gives  them  a  vividness  which  is  in 
keeping  with  the  grand  background  which  mighty  Etna  supplies.  —  Brooklyn 
Life. 

Not  only  a  remarkably  strong  story,  but  an  evidence  qf  exceptional 
versatility.  ...  It  is  a  picture  of  life  under  the  shadow  of  Mount  ./Etna,  drawn 
with  all  the  fidelity  of  a  Verga  or  Capuana,  and  with  a  spirit  of  poetry  which 
neither  of  these  writers  possess.  Mrs.  Flach's  translation  is  excellent,  —  Com- 
mercial Advertiser. 

The  work  of  a  literary  artist  whose  clear  vision  penetrates  to  the  hearts  of 
people.  .  .  .  The  freshness  and  strength  of  the  book  are  impressive. —  Phila- 
delphia. Press. 

It  is,  in  fact,  no  common  talent  that  can  weave  together  the  units  of  fact, 
history,  legend,  myth,  and  symbol  into  a  design  at  once  so  rare  and  so  simple 
as  this.  —  Boston  'Journal. 

A  masterpiece  of  the  highest  order.  ...  All  who  hunger  and  thirst  after 
true  poetry  may  here  eat,  drink,  and  be  satisfied.  —  Cosmopolis. 


Little,  Brown,  &  Company,  Publishers, 

254  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON. 


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